


Nightfall Under a Crimson Moon

by sanddrake



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Delusions, Drugs, Imprisonment, M/M, Mind Control, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-07 03:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18864877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanddrake/pseuds/sanddrake
Summary: Tormented by nightmares from his imprisonment at the hands of Isabella, Lancelot awakens in the middle of the night to find a strange letter in his office claiming that Vane has been taken hostage and demanding Lancelot's presence.  The kidnapper, the self-styled "Lord Red", seems to have a personal grudge against Lancelot, and his efforts to satisfy that grudge swiftly escalate to horrifying levels as Lancelot must try to rescue Vane and himself from an inhuman captor.





	1. Chapter 1

Lancelot sat up in bed with a gasp as he woke from a fitful sleep, clutching his blankets tightly in his fists, his breath ragged.  He shivered and brought one hand to his chest, laying his palm over his heart.  Through the fabric of his nightshirt he could feel his his heart pounding, though it was quieting now, slowly, as he came fully awake.  Shards of the dream which had shocked him out of sleep still played about the corners of his mind, but when he tried to put them into order, they slipped away like motes of dust drifting in the air.  All that was left was the familiar, all-encompassing sense of fear.

The room around him was dark, the moonlight creeping through the edges of the shuttered windows like a thief and barely limning the edges of the furniture.  But he didn’t need any more light than that; he knew where everything was.  This was his room in the castle.  He was safe.  With a sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and poured himself some water from the pitcher on his side table, cradling the heavy ceramic mug for a moment in his hands before he brought it to his lips and drank, trying to calm himself.  On most other nights, he would have gone down the hall to Vane’s room.  It might be weakness to rely on his friend so heavily, but Vane always greeted him with a cheerful, sleepy smile and some treat he claimed he’d stashed away in case he got hungry.  There was always conveniently enough for both of them.

But Vane wasn’t in the castle tonight.  In his role as Vice Captain, Vane had taken a small detachment of knights with him on a training exercise to the border with Wales.  The plan was to meet up with a detachment of Aglovale’s troops and perform several joint maneuvers, ensuring that they could work together if the need arose.  Lancelot wished he could dismiss the possibility of something happening, but even with the peace treaties with Damore and Wales, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the misfortunes of Feendrache would continue.  The Knights had to be ready for any threat, and it was his responsibility to make sure that they were.  He’d wanted to go himself; thought that perhaps he should have gone.  It was a diplomatic mission as well.  But Vane was perfectly capable of managing the joint exercises, particularly with Percival present on the other side, and Lancelot had other responsibilities, so he’d stifled his personal desires and sent the detachment off with only Vane to command them.

Lancelot spun the mug in his hands, trying to stifle his urge to second-guess the decision.  When they were in battle, his concerns faded in the background, but managing the Knights and drawing out their full potential via training, policies, and calibrated assignments drew out every one of his doubts.  His choices could have such significant consequences: the opportunity to grow came with the possibility of failure.  But Siegfried had entrusted the position to him and continued to have faith in him even when he misstepped.  When he worried the most, he tried to remember that and take comfort in it.  He took another deep swallow from the mug in his hands.  The water had gone slightly stale over the few hours since he had gone to bed, but it still soothed his raw throat.  He wondered if he had been yelling in his sleep, but no one had come to wake or check on him.

With a sharp pain, he again wished Vane was there.  Ever since Isabella and Gareth’s rebellion, he’d been plagued with nightmares.  Even though he could rarely remember the details, he knew that those events were the cause.  After they’d retaken the kingdom, Lancelot had been unable to sleep throughout the night, waking in terror, convinced that he was still held prisoner.  Even now, when the worst had passed, he’d still occasionally feel the steel around his wrists, warmed from long contact with his skin, the chains wrapped around his arms, and see Isabella’s laughing face and cold eyes as she demanded things he wasn’t willing to give.

His hands trembled on the sides of the mug.  What was he doing, inviting her ghost back?  He shoved the thoughts away, trying to ignore the sudden echo of her cloying voice in his ear and the memory of her fingernails on his bare thigh.

With a sigh he set the mug down next to the pitcher and lay back in bed, tucking his hands behind his head and staring at the darkness of the ceiling.  He knew from experience that he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep again, but it was still far from morning.  The office down the hall beckoned.  There was always more paperwork to do, history to study, or reports to read over.  He was always in a rush, so it was useful to look back over the reports a second time for details he might have missed in his first pass.  He smiled reluctantly.  Another skill Siegfried had perfected: the ability to sense the seeds of trouble before they sprouted.  Someday, he promised himself, he would master that skill as well.

The training for the new recruits.  Worry about Vane’s exercises.  Concern over their tenuous relationship with Damore.  His thoughts raced in circles.  No, he wouldn’t be sleeping any more tonight, he admitted to himself as he got out of bed and dressed, buckling his sword belt over his clothing.  He’d look over the scores from the last test from the new recruits, then read the reports from the Damore border one more time.  The movements of their army seemed innocuous – there had been several monster issues with villages near the border, an issue which Lancelot had also been grappling with, though the small group of Knights he’d sent there had the Feendrache villages safe – but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong with what Damore was doing.  Perhaps his lack of sleep would give him a fresh perspective on the problem, he thought with a shred of humor.

The corridors were silent with everyone else in bed, and he padded down the hall to the room at the end.  There were knights guarding this wing, but they were stationed near the entrance, not near his office.  He opened the door onto the dark room, the shutters closed tight for the night, and crept carefully through the space, trying not to bump into anything.  Thankfully, Vane had been at it before he’d left, so there weren’t any books or papers piled on the floor.  As he reached his desk he felt around for the flint and steel he’d left next to the lamp, feeling the hint of clumsiness which came from insufficient rest and too much work.  How many nights had it been since he had gotten decent rest, he wondered as he struck the lamp alight, years of practice making his hands sure even with his sleepiness.  Even when he woke with the sun in the morning instead of in the middle of the night like this, his eyes were scratchy and he barely felt like he had slept at all.  At this rate even the trainees might best him in sparring the next morning…

As the light spilled out from the lamp, he realized his desk was not how he had left it.  There was a sealed envelope sitting atop the stacked paperwork, his name written on it in fluid, needlessly ornate handwriting.  He stared at it, his sleepy mind trying to grasp why it was there.  His new correspondence was always left in a basket near the door.  None of the knights would have left a letter on the desk; all of them knew he was terrible at organization and there was a good chance it would be lost in the mess.  He whipped around, studying the room with a more careful eye.  There was a faint scent of something sweet in the air, unfamiliar, like the thick musk of a tropical flower.  Nothing like the lavender and spice that the servants used to clean and freshen the castle’s rooms and linens.  He focused, concentrating as he listened for the barest hint of breathing from someone hidden, but the only breathing he heard was his own.

Cautiously, he relaxed, pulling his hands off the hilts of his swords.  There were plenty of reasons why a letter might end up on his desk instead of in the basket.  One of the knights might have sent a trainee to deliver it.  Perhaps a servant had moved it.  Maybe he was just so exhausted that he’d forgotten that he’d moved it himself.  But none of his excuses convinced him.  He walked around the desk to stand by his chair and lifted the envelope gingerly.

It was the source of the sweet smell, the scent stronger now that he held the heavy paper in his hands.  He turned it over, studying the back.  The red wax seal had been pressed with a simple half-circle, the flat side down, a mark which Lancelot didn’t recognize. It certainly didn’t belong to any of the Feendrache noble houses or guilds, and it was too plain a symbol to certify the sender.  No organization or person of note would use such a seal.  But if it wasn’t intended as identification, why mark it at all?  Just affixing the wax would have been sufficient to show it hadn’t been tampered with.  Reluctantly, he broke the seal and fished out the folded letter inside.

It was simple, the words barely covering even half of the page.

**“To the Captain of the White Dragon Knights, Lancelot,**

**I have taken the liberty of inviting your Vice Captain to my abode, but I believe the party would be much more lively if you would join us.  I am waiting, with accommodations for travel, in the forest nearby the castle, down the river to the west.  I fear that my meager offerings would not suit a larger gathering, so I must insist that you come alone.**

**With my deepest regards,**

**Lord Red.”**

As he tilted the letter to read it, something brushed past his fingers where they held the paper at the fold and fluttered to the floor.  The color of it had been close to the parchment, and the light poor, so he hadn’t seen it at first.  He crouched down and picked the item up, bringing it closer to the lamp.

A small tuft of blond hair, tied with a bit of pale thread.  He’d felt that hair against his hand so many times before, and seen the color for all of his life.  And the length was short, like it had been cut at the scalp, but he knew it.  There was no way he could mistake it.

His fingers trembled as his breathing stilled for a single moment.  _Vane._


	2. Chapter 2

The forest in the hours before dawn was quieter than usual, the silence only broken by the chirping and humming of summer insects.  The loudest sound was Lancelot’s boots against the dirt and the faint chink-chink of his chain mail shirt as he walked swiftly down the trail to the appointed meeting place.  His own breath was heavy in his ears, not from exertion, but from fear.  He still hadn’t entirely shaken off the last bits of the nightmare, and on the heels of every beat of his heart he heard a whisper in the back of his mind.  _Vane_.

Lancelot slowed as the trees thinned ahead, the trail widening into a clearing lit by the ample light of the full moon.  The journey had gone by in a flash.  Despite the whisper of fear in his head demanding he hurry, he veered to the side of the path, using the trees to hide his silhouette as he crept closer.  A man about his height stood in the center of the grassy area, staring up at the sky with a strange, distant expression on his face.  His features were delicate, with high cheekbones and thin lips, and his skin was bleached to an ethereal, ghostly white beneath the moonlight.  He wore no armor, only a foppish linen shirt blooming with lace at the neck and wrists and tight pants, like the most useless sort of courtier at court, though Lancelot noted the hilt of a sword peeking over his shoulder, sheathed on his back.  The man’s hair fell in a straight line to his waist.  While the color wasn’t clear in the cold light, the strands stood out as dark lines over his light shirt.

He didn’t seem like much of a threat, but long years of experience had made Lancelot wary of his first impression.  Neither Gareth nor Isabella had seemed like much of a threat before they’d shown their true colors, and while Lancelot had brought his swords and worn chain mail, the need for secrecy meant that he’d had to forgo his usual plate.

Perhaps he should have left a detailed note for Siegfried or Percival after all.  The only sign that he’d gone out was the swift, stern scolding he’d delivered to the knight assigned to guard the little-used servant’s exit from the castle grounds, who had been nodding off when Lancelot had tried to leave.  He’d cursed the loss of time, no matter how brief, but his responsibility wouldn’t let him simply slip by.  But even if he had left a note, he didn’t think there was any chance Siegfried would have found it useful.  The former knight captain was off handling some undisclosed matter regarding Feendrache’s security, but a letter posted through the Knickknack shop would surely reach him anyways, and when the knights realized Lancelot had disappeared without any sort of standing orders they would almost certainly send for him.  Percival had been with the Wales’ contingent of troops meeting Vane at the border, so he would realize something was wrong as soon as the knights found Vane missing.

And Lancelot had left the letter from Red in his desk drawer.  The knights wouldn’t search it, but Siegfried or Percival would.  Either could draw the appropriate conclusions from it.  They wouldn’t need further explanation.  He cursed under his breath; these thoughts were just running his own mind in circles.

After a few moments of silence as Lancelot considered him, the man leisurely looked away from the moon and faced Lancelot directly.  It was clear from the unconcerned way he moved that he had known Lancelot was there.  His thin lips curved in an unpleasant smile, and Lancelot’s sense of foreboding crystallized.  This was ‘Lord Red.’

“I do appreciate you answering my invitation so promptly, and with no uninvited guests, as requested,” Red said, his voice quiet, yet carrying on the warm night breeze.  He placed a hand on his stomach and inclined his body in the barest hint of a bow.  “Truly, knights have an excellent grasp of proper etiquette.  You needn’t be shy.  Join me.  Ah!  But I believe I am being rude.  I am Lord Red.”

Red put a peculiar twist on the word ‘knight’, turning it into a pejorative.  Lancelot forced himself to relax and not rise to the bait.  He took several steps forward so the trees were no longer at his back, closing the distance between them to barely a few sword lengths.  Though Red was practically undefended, he didn’t even move his hand towards the sword on his back.  He didn’t seem to be intimidated by the idea of facing a knight in close quarters combat with no armor at all.  It didn’t bode well.  Could he be a mage of some sort?  “Where is Vane?” Lancelot demanded.

“Politeness demands that we engage in small talk before business, but… well, I suppose there are extenuating circumstances,” Red commented in a fussy tone.  He reached into a pouch in his belt and pulled out something small which glinted in the moonlight.  Lancelot dropped his hands to his swords.  The man laughed, opening his palm to show a dark-colored, finger-sized crystal lying there.  “You needn’t worry; I don’t plan to attack you.  I’m certain we can come to an accommodation.  I simply believe that you might find this interesting.”

The man tossed the crystal so it landed within inches of Lancelot’s feet.  Lancelot crouched down carefully and picked it up, keeping his attention on Red the entire time.  There was no sense of immediate danger in the air; the self-styled ‘Lord’ seemed to be telling the truth that he had no intention of attacking.  But Lancelot’s instincts whispered that he needed to be cautious, and he heeded them.

Holding the crystal between his index finger and thumb, he studied it.  It was only the length of his index finger, a simple six sided prism, pointed on both sides, about as wide as the knuckle of his thumb.  The base color was dark, but in addition to the reflected moonlight on the upturned face, there was a soft glow deep within its center.  That glow drew his attention, and he gasped as an image leapt out from it, appearing in front of him as if it were a transparent canvas painted in light.

In that canvas was Vane, wearing just his shirt and trousers.  One eye was already swollen and blackening, his lower lip was split and crusted with blood, and he appeared to be unconscious, propped against a wall.  Chains trailed from about neck height on the wall across his outstretched legs, ending at his wrists.  There on his left temple, a small bit of his hair had been shaved clean.  It would match the length of the hair Lancelot had received with the letter.

The crystal slipped from his fingers, and with that, the image disappeared.  He let it go.  It didn’t matter.  His swords were already in his hands, and his enemy was before him.

“Ah, and here I thought we could settle this in a civilized manner,” Red said, but there was pleasure and anticipation in his voice.

“Where is he?” Lancelot demanded.  It was a formality.  He’d already begun to advance.  Red wasn’t going to answer his question.  Waiting was irrelevant.

Red drew the sword from his back sheath, settling into a defensive stance.  “If I was simply going to tell you that with no conditions, I’d hardly have gone through this entire charade, don’t you think?”

Lancelot’s boot struck the crystal, sending it flying across the clearing as he took two quick steps and then launched himself at his opponent.  One of his blades was parried by the sword, but the other penetrated the man’s guard.  Unreasonably, impossibly, it still missed its target, sliding by the fabric of Red’s shirt at his side with a soft “schiff”.  Undaunted, Lancelot twisted, ready to parry a counter-strike.  It didn’t come.  As he drew back warily, the man simply moved his sword back into a guard position and waited.

“I expected to bring you along that you might share my hospitality together, but an unprovoked attack?  How uncivilized,” Red said, as Lancelot pressed forward again.  This time Lancelot moved with intent, trying to feel out the man’s style.  It was fluid, dance-like, and almost… careless.  Red’s blade met his from time to time, deflecting and redirecting, but it seemed random whether the man dodged or parried, and Lancelot couldn’t seem to even nick his clothing.  And infuriatingly, Red still refused to attack.  All he did was defend.  He didn’t even seem ruffled, his voice cheerful as he continued.  “I do hope this doesn’t take too long.  How long can humans survive without water?  Not more than a few days, I believe.  Though occupying me for that long might require a bit more stamina than you have.”

“Fight me!” Lancelot said harshly, his frustration clawing at his chest.  The barrage of words was a meaningless distraction, but it wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as attacking an opponent who only defended himself and didn’t strike back.  It didn’t matter that Red was clearly the enemy.  All Lancelot needed to do was remember the image of Vane’s battered body to ignite his anger once more, but the peculiar flow of the fight left him off-balance.  The trees blurred around him as he moved, and the ground felt unsteady under his feet.

The man parried another strike, dancing lightly backwards.  He’d retreated several times, but he seemed perfectly aware of where the trees were and refused to approach them too closely, side-stepping when necessary to leave himself plenty of open space to move.  He wouldn’t let himself be cornered.  “Oh?  Why should I?  To give you solace as you strike me down that you did the right thing, even as you seal your friend’s dreadful fate?”

“I’ll find him.  I don’t need anything from you.”

“Oh no, I think that’s quite impossible.  Perhaps if you had several weeks.  But a handful of days?  Surely not.  I treasure my isolation.  He’s in a very… safe… place.”

Lancelot’s blades rang out in the clearing as he struck again and again.  The man was still smiling at him, so he pushed harder and faster.  His sword work was becoming rough.  He needed to still his mind, focus on what he needed to accomplish instead of the taunting face of the enemy before him, but it was hard to concentrate.  If he’d been sleeping better… if he’d even slept enough that night.  If it wasn’t Vane, or if he knew where his friend was, if the situation was only more concrete… “Tell me where he is!”

“I’d be happy to—” Red began, but hesitated as Lancelot’s blade skimmed close to his face.  The man’s eyes widened slightly, but aside from that slight indication, he seemed more pleased than anything as he continued, “—but I’ll have to insist that you accept my invitation on my terms.”

“So you can take both of us, then attack Feendrache while its defenses are weak?”  Lancelot growled.  “I have more honor than that.”

“Oh…” Red said, turning a parry into a sudden twist, knocking Lancelot’s blade aside.  It was the first offensive move he had made, and the shift in the tenor of the fight caught Lancelot off-guard.  Lancelot barely pulled his hand back fast enough to avoid losing his weapon, but the man didn’t bother to pursue the opening, instead stepping back and returning to a neutral position.  “You’re operating under a misapprehension.  I obviously wasn’t clear.  All I care about is you.  Your country…” he trailed off, waving his free hand dismissively, but his sword didn’t even waver.  “Even your friend isn’t very interesting to me.  All I want is your surrender, Lancelot.”

It was the first time the man had said Lancelot’s name.  The tone of his voice was cloying, as if his tongue savored the edges of the word.  A chill went down Lancelot’s spine.  “No,” he said, raising his blades again.  Questions filled him, but he pushed them aside.  They were not relevant to this fight.

“That’s a pity,” Red said as he lowered his sword.  Lancelot watched him warily, expecting some new trick, but the opening the man was presenting him was far too appealing.  “I’d even be willing to let your friend free.  But if you refuse to accept my offer, well, I suppose I have no use for him.  I don’t think thirst is a pleasant way to die, but if you insist, then…”

Lancelot felt something clench inside of him.  His focus narrowed to a single point: the man’s heart.  He thrust forward with every ounce of speed he could manage…

…and struck nothing, as the man disappeared.

“I do strive to be a welcoming host, no matter the foibles of my guests.”  The voice came from all around the clearing.  Lancelot’s eyes darted about as he searched for the source of it, but it was truly coming from everywhere.  His hands clenched hard on the hilts of his swords, but with no target left to strike at, their familiar weight brought him no comfort.  “You have… hmm.  Until the moon has disappeared below the tree line, let’s say?  I’ll give you that time to consider my offer.  If you leave the clearing at any time, I’ll also take my leave, and your friend will suffer whatever fate has in store for him.  Perhaps, beyond all odds, you’ll manage to find and save him before he dies.”  The voice chuckled.  “However, if you decide to accept, just say so.  I’ll take you to see your friend.  That might offer you better odds… though I will leave that to you to calculate.”

“Come back here and fight!” Lancelot yelled, spinning around in desperation.  “Coward!”

The only response he received was a soft chuckle, and then only the normal sounds of the night filled the clearing.


	3. Chapter 3

The time ticked away as Lancelot single-mindedly searched the clearing for Red, even though he knew it was a fruitless endeavor.  It felt like seconds; it could have been hours.  Several times Lancelot considered just breaking the tree line and leaving ‘Lord Red’ to his games.  His most precious commodity was time.  If he elected not to negotiate with Red, he would have to start searching immediately if he was going to have any chance of finding Vane before something happened to his friend.  He would need to meet up with Percival – surely the crew of the Grancypher would help as well – and send out messages to Siegfried via every method at his disposal.  It would take hours to marshal his resources, but that would be a far more reasonable approach than depending on the goodwill of a kidnapper.  But every time he made the decision to leave, the crystal lying abandoned in the grass of the clearing seemed to glisten, catching his attention and crushing his resolve.  The split lip.  The black eye.  The chains.  And Vane, unconscious.  Alone.  He knew how that felt.

No.  Lancelot shook his head.  He could rely on his friends and the support of the White Dragon Knights.  Red having Vane was bad enough, and for Lancelot to simply hand himself over would just give him more leverage.  It wasn’t the right decision as Captain.  But if he bet on the search and failed, then all was lost – Vane would be dead.

He paced restlessly back and forth, the grass catching at the leather of his boots as if to hold him in place.  Perhaps he wasn’t properly assessing the tactical landscape.  There was always the chance that he and Vane could escape once they were reunited.  The two of them together were a greater threat than either of them alone.  And if they couldn’t escape themselves… Siegfried and Percival would find them, Lancelot reasoned.  The older knights always came through.  In that case, the best move would be to surrender, acquire more information, and trust in his own ability to work with Vane to see the situation through, with his friends as a backup plan.

His palms were clammy against the hilts of his swords as he stopped in the center of the clearing and stared up at the circle of sky above him, trying to think above his racing heart.  His blades dangled next to his legs, ready to spring into action if Red presented himself again, but the foppish man was gone.  Even the needling chatter had been replaced by the quiet nighttime background noise of the woods, the distant call of nighttime animals and the rustle of the forest canopy in the gentle breeze that stirred his hair against his temples.  It was possible that Red had already left, Lancelot realized with a start.  It was hard to judge the time from where he stood, but the sky was already lightening.  Had he waited too long and lost his chance?

The fear he felt crystallized his decision.  The words were hard to say, sticking in his throat like a clod of dirt.  But when he managed to get them out, they were clear enough, if quiet.  “I accept your invitation.”

“Wonderful.”  The voice came from right beside him, and Lancelot barely stopped himself from reflexively lashing out.  He turned to see Red next to him, a wide smile on his face.  The man had come out of nowhere.  He certainly hadn’t been standing there a moment ago.  “It would be a terrible stain on a host’s reputation to let a guest die.”

Lancelot’s hands clenched around the hilts of his swords once more as he remembered how Vane had already suffered under Red’s “hospitality,” but he reluctantly sheathed his blades before he was tempted to use them.  It didn’t suit to surrender with weapons in your hands.  It bothered him that Red didn’t even twitch as he moved.  Lancelot’s voice was low and rough as he asked, “Where are we going?”

“Ah, but you need the proper attire first.”  A skein of rope was suddenly in Red’s hands, stretched between them, as if produced from thin air.  “Host’s rules.  Take off your chain mail and turn around, please.”

Lancelot clenched his teeth, but did as he was told.  The chain mail rattled as it pooled on the ground.  Red took his wrists and secured them tightly in the small of his back.  Lancelot tested the bonds, twisting and pulling just slightly.  They didn’t budge.  His breath caught in his throat as Isabella’s leering face flashed before him for a moment.  “Are you satis—”

This time it was a white cloth passing before his eyes.  Before he could process the meaning of it, Red jerked it tight into the corners of his mouth.  A gag.  “There.  Perfect,” Red pronounced, stepping around and studying him as if to appreciate his own work.  Lancelot glared at him and realized that he was reflexively fighting against the restraints.  All he wanted was his swords in his hands.  The need for them was like a burning coal in his heart.  Red pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes sparkling.  “Shh.  No questions for now, yes?  I’d prefer peace and quiet.”

Lancelot growled in frustration.

“Perhaps with a few exceptions.”  Red reached up and stroked Lancelot’s cheek, tugging a lock of hair from underneath the gag.  The gesture had a familiarity, a disgusting intimacy which brought back unpleasant memories.  Lancelot pulled away from the touch, tempted to follow it up with a kick.  His legs weren’t restrained.  But it would be nothing more than a pointless gesture, and so he banked his anger and waited.

“Such a pretty picture,” Red said, holding up his hand in front of Lancelot’s face with his index finger and thumb in the shape of an O, the rest of his hand splayed wide.  He spread the two fingers apart, and in the gap, a crystal like the one in which the image of Vane had appeared built itself out of thin air.  “Would you like to see?”

Without waiting for a response, Red shoved the crystal up close to Lancelot’s face, so he couldn’t avoid looking into the glow in its depths.  The image leapt out at him.  In it, his eyes were wide.  Terrified.  Not a whit of the anger he felt was displayed there.  Was it just some twisted view of how Red saw him?  Or was this what he actually looked like in that moment?  He swallowed, but his mouth was dry, the gag sucking all the moisture from his tongue.

With a chuckle, Red pocketed the crystal and the image disappeared.  “Well, enough pageantry.  We should hurry back.  It would be cruel to buy you with false tender, don’t you think?”

Red grasped his arm and pulled him forward.  Lancelot glanced over his shoulder, to where the orange glow of dawn’s embers lit the edges of the dark castle.  As foreboding as it looked in the morning light, his heart clamored for it.  Home.  But he quickly had to look away, preoccupied with his footing as Red’s unyielding grip threatened to drag him if he refused to walk.  The man’s hands were frighteningly strong.  None of that strength had been evident during their duel.  What else had Red been hiding?

They walked perhaps a mile or so, leaving the castle in their wake, south toward the fields which supplied the town.  The clouds above flushed with maroon and gold as the minutes passed, but the forest was still dark, and the path Red was dragging him down was nothing more than an animal trail.  It was hard to see the roots and vines which would catch the unwary foot, and with Red pulling him forward, Lancelot had no other option but to pay attention to his feet and try to keep up as best he could.

Eventually they broke out of the forest’s depths onto a large open field.  Lancelot strained his eyes, half hoping that the farmer or his family might already be out tending their crops, but there was no sign of them among the tilled soil with its sprouts of green.  It was probably for the best, he told himself.  Red was likely to kill any witnesses.  But what he saw instead made his heart fall.  A compact airship sat a short distance away from where they’d emerged from the trees.  They were to be flying out, then; that explained Red’s confidence that Vane wouldn’t be easily found.  No message warning of Vane’s kidnapping had arrived before Lancelot had left the castle, and he’d seen no unusual lights or activity in that last glance he’d spared for it before they’d left the clearing.  Probably there hadn’t been a message after he’d left, either.  That limited the possible places for Red’s hideout, since Red must have delivered Vane there and then returned to this location to meet with Lancelot.  But with an airship at Red’s disposal, the amount of ground the knights would have to cover was staggering.  It could take weeks… unless someone spotted the airship in flight.  Lancelot let out a sigh into the gag, trying to calm himself.  It was for the best that he had surrendered so close to the deadline.  The chance that someone would see them flying overhead and report it to the knights were far better in the early morning than in the hours before dawn.

As they approached Red’s airship, Lancelot studied it.  The ship had a peculiar design, not one he’d seen before.  The metal was raw and bare, undecorated and without the wood accents which were common in airship construction.  It was close to the former Erste Empire’s utilitarian design, but there were differences he couldn’t quite put his finger on.  Clumsy.  That was it.  The lines were a little off, the proper symmetry missing.  The Erste Empire had been fanatical about details.  This airship looked custom made, but not well crafted.

When they arrived at the side of the craft, Red pulled him up into the cabin and shoved him unceremoniously into the sole passenger’s seat in the back.  He unbuckled Lancelot’s sword belt and pulled it from around him, dropping it into the corner.  Lancelot followed Red’s motions with his eyes, his frustration rising again as his blades were treated like simple baggage.  The open door to his side was a temptation.  He could still fight back even with all these disadvantages.  Perhaps escape.  But while the presence of the airship was a hint, he wasn’t confident it was enough for him to find Vane before the worst happened.  Red returned to stand before him and  leaned forward, bringing his face unpleasantly close to Lancelot’s.  The man’s breath held a dry, bitter scent.  “From here, it’s all the airship.  No turning back now.  Any regrets?”

Lancelot simply glared at him.  The gag prevented him from responding, which Red knew full well.  Lancelot’s glare was returned with a chuckle as Red pulled heavy canvas straps up from around the frame of the passenger’s seat.  Lancelot ground his teeth into the gag.  Red wasn’t simply going to depend on the ropes to hold Lancelot while they flew, then.  He stiffened his muscles, trying to buy himself some give in the straps as Red buckled them in place across his chest and legs, but Red pulled the straps viciously tight, and checked them carefully, humming under his breath as he did.  When Red was satisfied, Lancelot’s bound arms were pinned painfully between the padded back of the chair and his own spine, and the edge of the seat dug into the back of his knees.  As Red left to occupy himself with the preflight checks, Lancelot jerked and twisted against his bonds, but he couldn’t find any give in them at all.  His breathing was heavy as he forced himself to relax, staring at the back of his captor’s head, bent over the forward console.  There would be other chances, he told himself.  There had to be.


	4. Chapter 4

The airship bounced across the grass with an arrhythmic series of thumps before coming to rest in the shade of a copse of trees.  They had arrived.  Lancelot bit deep into the gag in frustration and tried a few last angry jerks against his bonds as Red fussed with the control panel, but the ropes were just as stubborn as they had been the entire flight.  The seat straps bound his arms close to his torso, keeping him from exerting any significant leverage against the ropes around his wrists.  He had fought to get some give into the loops, but all he’d done was exhaust himself, and the cloth of the gag burned where it had cut into the corners of his mouth as he’d struggled.

With a frustrated groan, he finally sat still.  During the flight he had squinted out of the windows of the airship in the brief breaks between attempts to free himself, trying to get an idea of where they were going, but everything beyond the glass had been blurry and indistinct. He was fairly sure they had headed north off the island from the way the airship had pitched and turned as they rose, but that didn’t help him identify their final destination.  He wasn’t sensitive enough to detect the subtle banks and turns in flight without the benefit of landmarks, and Red could have turned them around without Lancelot being the wiser.

It might just have been exhaustion.  They had been flying for hours, and he’d been working at the ropes as much as he could manage.  His skin was rubbed raw, and the muscles in his arms, chest and neck ached like he’d been sparring with Siegfried.  Even if he did get free, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to fight effectively.  It would take him time to recover.  It had when Gran and the others had freed him from Isabella’s dungeons.

Lancelot shuddered at the thought as Red finally stood and made his way back from the pilot’s seat.  Red’s smile widened, though he couldn’t have known what Lancelot was thinking.  Before unbuckling the safety straps, he reached behind Lancelot’s back and tested the ropes, verifying that they were still tight around Lancelot’s wrists.  As his fingers grazed the rope-burned skin, Lancelot couldn’t hold back a wince.

“Hoping to free your hands before we arrived?”  Red said, leaning close enough that his breath was warm on Lancelot’s cheek.  Along with the heat of it came a hint of something sickly sweet.  “Do we have a different interpretation of the word ‘surrender’?”

Lancelot glared at him defiantly.  He felt no guilt over his attempts to escape.  Red had thrown away all codes of behavior by taking a hostage for leverage.

“I’m sure that you think that you owe me nothing.  And you would be correct!  I know you… knights,” he said, choosing the word after a short, odd pause, “adore your rules.  You are no honorable prisoner of war, defeated fairly in combat and justly subject to certain standards of behavior and guaranteed certain rights.  Escape is no sin in your situation.”  He grasped Lancelot’s face, thumb on one cheek and fingers nearly enveloping the other, forcing their gazes to lock.  “However, actions needn’t be a sin to have consequences, and sometimes those consequences fall on those other than ourselves.”

Vane.  He was talking about Vane.  “Mmph!” Lancelot protested, struggling against the straps.

“This is exactly the behavior we were speaking about just now,” Red exclaimed.  “At this rate, I have no idea when you’ll be able to satisfy my terms.  Your friend may end up being my guest for quite a while.”  He gave a long sigh as Lancelot reluctantly fell still.  “Though I can’t deny your vivacity has its appeal.  Perhaps I’ll let you off lightly.”

As the straps fell free from him, Lancelot realized how bad his condition truly was.  He slumped as pain lit through his ribcage as his back and stomach were forced to take his weight.  He gritted his teeth and resolved to endure it.  He knew the gradations of pain from years of training and of combat.  This wasn’t serious, and it wasn’t permanent.  Given a chance to rest, the pain would fade.

Isabella had never given him that chance.  His arm muscles had screamed as they bore his weight from the chains, but he hadn’t been able to move enough to relieve them.  Even when he could eke out an inch or two of support, it had come at the cost of his back or his legs.  Eventually everything had hurt, all the time, and the only question was which part of his body hurt the worst at a given moment.

Lancelot startled out of his reverie with a muffled gasp as Red pulled him to his feet.  The abrupt movement sent a white shock through his chest, but his legs took his weight.  His head was spinning as Red led him down from the airship onto the patchy grass under the trees.  Back in the direction the airship had landed from, he could see an unbroken field of wild grasses stretching into the distance.  The grass was the deep green achieved in the middle of summer with gentle sunlight and enough rain.  These were quite similar to the grasses near Feendrache, but that told him little.  They hadn’t been in the air for more than a few hours, and the nearby islands had very similar plants, monsters, and animals.  There should be still be signs, Lancelot thought, craning his head around.  Perhaps the trees… or the color or consistency of the dirt… or some glimpse of a mushroom or flower which he had seen before, one particular to the island they were on.

“Enjoying the view?” Red said, bringing Lancelot’s attention back to him.  “I’m surprised you’re willing to just let your friend wait.”

Lancelot narrowed his eyes.  Red had to know exactly what Lancelot was doing and why, and it should make him nervous.  Part of Red’s advantage lay in the fact that Lancelot didn’t know where they were.  If Lancelot knew the lay of the land, perhaps even the location of a nearby village, it could be critical to a successful escape.  It was hard to keep a prisoner confined for an extended period of time.  There was always some weak point which could be exploited, either in the delivery of food or water, or during transport, or some flaw in the jailers.  Even Isabella… no.  Not now.

Red showed his white teeth in a flash of dark humor and he pushed Lancelot ahead of him.  “You must be eager to see him.  Let’s not let ourselves be distracted.”

The burn of exhausted muscles crept up Lancelot’s thighs as he carefully put one foot in front of the other, lurching forward towards the forest.  A tiny part of him clamored for him to run, now, but with no luck in freeing his hands and still no certainty where Vane was being held, running was still not an option.  He could feel Red’s presence at his back, two or three steps behind him.  Without being able to see the man directly, only relying on that nebulous sense of presence, Red felt much larger than he looked.  As they walked, Lancelot couldn’t entirely shake the image of Red leaning over him from above, like he was walking in the shadow of some huge beast.  The muscles in his back clenched with a sense of foreboding.

His thought distracting him, a twisted root protruding out of the ground caught his foot and made him stumble.  His shoulders ached as he reflexively tried to bring his arms forward to catch himself and only pulled against the ropes binding him.  Red caught his upper arm and pulled him up before he fell forward.

“Clumsy.  You look a bit peaky,” Red said, peering into his face.  Lancelot shook off the delusion he’d been experiencing with effort.  Red looked no different than he had before.  The lack of sleep and the stress of the situation was making him delusional.  Red’s hand tightened on his arm.  “Well, I suppose I must play the good escort, then.”

They walked forward together, Red providing some support as Lancelot navigated the uneven ground on increasingly shaky legs.  After a short distance, they came across a rapidly running stream.  It was small enough that the trees simply leaned over it, but wide and deep enough that any leaves or twigs which fell were swiftly washed away downstream.  At Red’s tug on his arm, Lancelot turned left to follow it upstream and slightly uphill, the forest closing in tighter around them.  The water in the stream grew dark enough that Lancelot couldn’t see into its depths.  Though it was midday, the canopy above them was thick and layered as they moved into old growth.  Off in the distance Lancelot heard a monster cry out, the sound of a predator sighting prey.  If he had been leading an expedition, he would have warned his knights to be ready, but Red didn’t even look in the direction of the sound, and his pace neither slowed nor quickened.

The sound of crashing water warned Lancelot before they emerged into a large clearing with a pond at the base of a waterfall.  It was short by waterfall standards, somewhere between two or three stories tall, but that was sufficient to cover the pond at the base in white froth.  It seemed at first like a dead end, but Lancelot’s heart fell in his chest.  It made no sense for them to come to a place like this unless there was an entrance to a cave system nearby.  Being underground wasn’t an insurmountable obstacle to being found, but if Red’s hideout had been a man-made, aboveground structure, it would have been easier to recognize from the air.  There were other issues with a cave system as well.  If prepared properly caves could be highly defensible, with exits emerging in unusual places, providing a bolt hole to escape even if the main entrance was found.  There was probably potable water in the depths of this one, given the waterfall on its front door.  Lancelot wouldn’t want to assault a well-prepared defender in a cave.

“I’ve prepared quite extensively to receive visitors, both invited and unexpected,” Red said as they walked around to the side of the waterfall.  They had to pick their way carefully over a bed of rocks and through a tiny gap between the cave wall and the pounding water.  The spray soaked Lancelot in an instant, making him shiver with the chill.  Red’s fingers slipped just slightly on his arm.  It was the perfect chance to break away, if circumstances weren’t what they were.  “You needn’t worry about monsters in the cave.  They saw the wisdom of ceding their lair to me.”

Red snapped his fingers and the tip of his index finger burst into blue flame.  The light it provided was dim, but enough to illuminate their way as they went deeper.  The entrance to the cave system was completely natural, the rocks and pebbles strewn across the floor as if they’d lain undisturbed since the island had spit them out.  Lancelot dragged his feet slightly as they went, hoping to leave some mark which might serve as a sign if Siegfried or Percival found the cave.  It wasn’t difficult to hide his intentions in his exhausted stumbling.  His lack of sleep was beginning to catch up to him.  Even the adrenaline of the situation couldn’t keep him awake forever.

As they walked, the caves branched, twisted and turned.  Eventually, suddenly, they turned a corner and there was a wooden door set into a stone wall.  No slipshod construction this; it wouldn’t have been out of place in the castle.  The finger-flame which had been lighting their way vanished as Red put his hand on the handle and pulled the door open.  Beyond was a well-lit, well-maintained complex.  The floor, walls, and ceiling were squared and neat, as if they had been laid in brick and mortar instead of carved, though there was not a seam to be seen.  Even though the stone was the same as what they had passed through outside, this space felt like a human habitation.  Magic lamps were spaced evenly across the ceiling to provide ample light.  The only oddity which Lancelot spotted at first glance was that the corridors leading off of this one weren’t evenly spaced or at a consistent angle.  The base of the complex must still be the original cave system.

Prepared extensively, indeed.  Lancelot felt his tension rise as he took in just how carefully Red’s lair had been constructed.  It could be much smaller than it seemed at first glance, he told himself.  Surely even the most extravagant investment couldn’t hollow out an entire castle’s worth of space in a cave underground without leaving a trace.  But the line of lights stretched out into the distance, revealing intersecting corridors and doors which presumably led to other rooms.  The labor involved beggared imagination.  And to do it in secret… no.  It had to be impossible.  He should see this as good news.  Siegfried would pick up on this.  There was no way a place like this could have been completely hidden from the world.  That was what he told himself, but his heart pounded in his chest.

“Welcome to my home,” Red said, looking at Lancelot with a mocking smile.


	5. Chapter 5

The corridors of the underground complex really did stretch out forever.  The minutes ticked by one after another as they walked, Red’s hand still tight around his arm.  Lancelot’s vision wavered and his already weary legs began to tremble.  It was almost a relief when Red finally pulled him to a stop in front of a door, as unremarkable and plain as all the others they had passed on the way there.  Red left Lancelot standing unsteadily as he pushed the door open and motioned for Lancelot to enter before him.  Lancelot hesitated, gathering his strength, then stepped forward into the room beyond.

He took the space in at a glance.  It wasn’t what he had expected, and at first he doubted his eyes.  The floor had been laid with hardwood, lending the room a less severe air than the bare rock corridors of the rest of the complex, and a large magic lamp hung from the ceiling in the center of the room.   A bed sat in the far right corner, a real bed, with a thick mattress and blankets turned down as if by servants, though Lancelot hadn’t seen another soul in their trip through the complex and he couldn’t imagine Red doing chores.  In the nearer corner to his right sat a wooden table and three chairs atop a white, tightly-woven circular rug.  A copper pitcher and two cups rested on the table’s surface.  A waist-high bookshelf filled with books had been placed against the far wall.  Though he couldn’t read the letters at this distance, he recognized several of the spines from their color and the general shape of the titles.  One was a book on tactics which he’d read every year since he’d decided to become a knight, and he knew that another contained descriptions of major battles, selected to provide a broad distribution of different terrain types and situations.  Both were favorites of his, and it was disconcerting to see them there. 

There were several things in the room he could use a weapon.  The metal pitcher, the chairs, the sheets on the bed.  It would be sheer folly to let him loose.  Lancelot swallowed through his dry mouth, the fibers of the cloth sticking to his tongue.  A vague sense of foreboding rose in the back of his mind as he swept his gaze across the room once more.  This time he caught the one detail he had missed.  The shadow of the door, the final corner of the room.  The chains hanging from the wall, the rough, uneven rock left bare.  It was so out of place with everything else that the shock hit him harder than it might have otherwise.

A hand grabbed him around the arm, and he felt the bite of nails into his skin.  He could barely breathe around the gag.  He suddenly couldn’t remember how the cloth had gotten into his mouth.  All he could see was Isabella leaning forward into him, her eyes filled with madness as she drew out his name in a mockery of affection, lifting one hand up, ready to strike.  He took one step back, but the grip on his arm only tightened, and then he was dragged forward.

He flinched, remembering the hard smack of Isabella’s palm against his cheek, the sharp trail of pain as her nails drew blood.  Struggling wildly against the hand which pulled him, he couldn’t figure out why his arms were behind him when they had always been suspended above his head.  But he could see Gareth watching from behind Isabella with her eyes full of hate.  He was in the dungeons of Feendrache Castle once more.

“I hadn’t expected quite this extreme of a response,” an unfamiliar voice said with a chuckle.  It mingled with the sound of Isabella’s mad cackling ringing in his ears.

_Vane will come for me.  Percival will come for me.  Siegfried will come for me._

No, they had to stay away, Lancelot knew.  Bad enough that Isabella had him.  She couldn’t get them as well.  But if they didn’t come and he didn’t escape, then Feendrache was lost.  He couldn’t let that happen either.

His knees struck the floor with a jolt as Isabella shoved him down.  When had she gotten so strong?  Was this some side-effect of her madness?  His mind scrambled to make the situation make sense.  He’d already been on the floor, hadn’t he?  His arms were above his head, but they were also behind his back.  His armor was broken and torn, his chest partially exposed to the cool air of the underground dungeons, but he could still feel the cloth of his shirt pulled tight against his chest, and the room was warm, stifling.

Lancelot howled around the gag in his mouth as the contradictions piled up.  His senses were torn between the past and the present.  Chains rattled loud in his ears as he struggled against the ropes around his wrists.  Isabella’s thin fingers drew caresses down his calves and over his ankles, then she grabbed them tight, pinning his legs to the floor as she leered at him and licked her lips with anticipation.

“There, there,” the strange voice said.  Arms reached over his shoulders, clasped hands coming to rest on his chest.  He was pulled backwards into an embrace.  Lace tickled the back of his neck.  He groaned and struggled, but it felt like the weight of the arms around him would crush him into the floor.  “Perhaps this was a bit too much for you all at once.”

Shudders racked him.  Isabella’s hands… she’d been gentle, too.  In between the bouts of maddened rage, there were moments of tenderness, all the more horrifying because of the sweet poison she’d whispered in his ear, and the crawl of her fingers over his bare skin.

“You’ll have to tell me some day all the wonderful things she did to you.”  Hot breath bathed his ear, and he shook his head, trying to shake off the sensation.  The weight on his shoulders held him in place and still until his struggles died, replaced by a deep exhaustion.

Dully, Lancelot came back to himself.  His pulse was slow and heavy and his breathing had quieted.  The one holding him was Red, not Isabella.  He wasn’t in the Feendrache dungeons, he was in Red’s complex.  A strange sense of emptiness filled him as he stared at the bizarre room.  When he realized his legs hurt and tried to shift, he realized that sometime during the fit his boots had been removed and his ankles chained to the floor with only a few inches of give between them.  The thought brought another sharp spasm of fear.  It didn’t really make his situation any worse.  Rationally, he knew that.  The chances of breaking out while fighting Red directly had always been slim.  He had learned that from their fight and the aftermath.  His best opportunity would come in some moment of distraction.  But he felt his gorge rise as he remembered Isabella’s hand on his thigh, sliding up towards his groin.  She’d parted his legs and…

The arms slid away from his shoulders as Red leaned back.  “All done?”

Sweat itched all over his body, his shirt plastered to his skin and damp.  He shivered, both cold and hot.  The silence stretched out until he realized Red was actually expecting an answer, even though the gag still rendered him effectively mute.  He nodded, once, shortly.  Shame flooded him.  The nightmares still bothered him, but it had been over a year since his last fit.  He had thought he was beyond such things.

Red leaned back in again, but this time he untied the ropes around Lancelot’s wrists.  It should have been a relief, but after being confined so long, his muscles felt weak, and his shoulders ached as he let his hands fall to the stone floor.  The skin of his wrists burned from where the ropes had rubbed against his already abused flesh while he struggled.  At first reluctantly, then with determination, he bought his hands up to untie the gag.  The motion was accompanied by jolts of agony as his muscles and tendons protested, and he gasped, a short, sharp exhalation as his eyes watered with the pain.

It wasn’t a surprise when Red grabbed his wrists to stop him, but he hissed as it aggravated the rope burns further.  He put up a token resistance as Red pulled his arms over his head and then clapped his wrists in the waiting chains, but even that tiny bit of exertion made his head spin.  When Red was finished, Lancelot’s arms were spread wide to his sides, above his head and out far enough that the way he dangled from them made it slightly harder to breathe.  It was exactly how he had been confined in Isabella’s dungeons, down to the chains draped over his arms.  It hurt.  Hurt as badly as it had after days of confinement.  A tiny bit of some extreme emotion sparked in his chest, but he was already too tired to give voice to it or kindle it into any sort of action.

Red circled around and crouched in front of him.  His bright brown eyes studied Lancelot from head to toe, then he nodded and smiled.  And finally, he reached past Lancelot’s cheeks and untied the gag, pulling it free.

The absence of the cloth in Lancelot’s mouth was almost as good as the feeling of a drink of water, but his tongue was still practically glued to his teeth and his throat felt like he’d been marching through the desert.  He swallowed and worked his jaw, trying to get enough saliva going that he could speak, then opened his mouth to ask the obvious, desperate question… and hesitated, remembering that the original reason Red had given for the gag was just that: he didn’t want questions.  The hesitation only lasted a moment, but he saw the glint of pleasure in Red’s eyes, the little twist of amusement in the man’s smile.  But Red said nothing, so Lancelot asked anyway.

“Where’s Vane?” Lancelot asked, his voice rasping.  He tried to swallow.  It didn’t help.

“I think we’ll leave that to a different day,” Red said as he stood.  He walked over to the table and poured some water from the pitcher into one of the waiting cups.

“I want to see Vane.  Now,” Lancelot said.  The chains rattled as he pulled at them.

Red brought the cup over and sat cross-legged in front of him, running his thumb across the rim.  Head tilted and a slight smile playing about his lips, he asked, “Have you considered the word ‘please’?”

“Don’t… where is he?  I want to see him now!”  As he raised his voice, the tickle in his throat built into a full-fledged coughing fit.  Every time he breathed in it was like inhaling smoke – it burned.  He heaved great gasps of air and coughed, inhaled and coughed again.

When the fit of coughing finally subsided, Red leaned forward, grabbing Lancelot’s chin and forcing him to look up into Red’s eyes.  “You’re hardly in a position to make demands, and you should keep in mind that he’s only valuable to me as long as you’re alive.  Perhaps you should consider your own condition a little more?  Purely a suggestion.”

Lancelot pulled away from Red’s fingers with a jerk of his head.  Red chuckled and held out the cup.  The water inside seemed pure – copper glistened in its depths.  There was no guarantee that it wasn’t drugged, but if Red truly wanted to poison him, Lancelot had no recourse anyways.  He leaned forward to drink.

The bastard had put the cup right at the edge of his reach.  His lips could barely touch the rim.  But then Red relented, moving it forward until it was accessible, if not comfortable.  Lancelot only let a little bit past his lips at first.  His mouth was so dry that he could barely taste the water before it disappeared into his parched tongue, but there didn’t seem to be any unusual flavor.  No bitterness or sweetness.  So he drank, slowly.  Too much water too quickly after deprivation could make you sick.  His condition was bad enough as it was.

When he had finished, all the water gone and his thirst barely quenched, Red put the cup aside and reached for him.  Lancelot pulled back, but the chains didn’t give him enough play to avoid the man’s hand.  Fingertips grazed his cheek, traced his lips.  It only lasted a few seconds, but even that left him trembling.  Memories of Isabella flashed through his mind.

Red studied him for a moment, then produced another crystal, drawing it out of thin air like he had before.  This time, thankfully, he didn’t force Lancelot to look at it.  He only tucked it away and stood.

“Where is Vane?” Lancelot asked one more time, desperately, sensing that the other man was about to leave.

“I’ll bring him to you when the time is right,” Red said over his shoulder as he walked towards the still-open door.  “I think you’ve had enough excitement for the day, and you appear to need some time to remember your manners.  Politeness is the foundation of civilization, Lancelot.”

Red snapped his fingers and the lamp above went dark.  The door shut behind Red with a final-sounding thud, taking the rest of the light with him, and Lancelot heard the sound of the lock twisting closed.  It almost struck him as ridiculous.  He could barely move, let alone attempt escape.  And yet that simple sound still made him flinch.

_I_ _’ll find my chance.  Or Siegfried will come._

As he slumped in the grasp of the chains, as if from a far off distance, he could hear Isabella calling his name.


	6. Chapter 6

Lancelot jerked out of a fitful sleep at the sound of the lock tumblers turning, haunted by half-remembered caresses and a sing-song voice that lingered in his ears.  A gasp escaped him as his consciousness expanded to encompass his body.  Neck, shoulders, spine, chest: every muscle and tendon united in a chorus of agony.  Each halting breath felt like the blow of a club against his ribs.  His instinct was to curl inward, protect himself from the pain.  Instead he drew in a deep breath and sat up on his knees.

The manacles had dug into his ankles underneath his unconscious weight and his joints complained, but his leg muscles weren’t as bad a shape as his upper body.  As he settled into the new position his shoulders relaxed slightly.  It wasn’t much, but after a few moments the ache in his chest eased to a bearable level.

Above his head, the ceiling lamp flared to life, a further assault on his senses.  He reflexively squinted, then closed his eyes tightly.  Even through his eyelids the light was brilliant and painful.  Footsteps approached from the direction of the door and Lancelot pried one eye open, ignoring how it watered, and then the other.  Through his tears, he saw a hazy form, darkness haloed by the light.  Thin.  It had to be Red.  Unable to bear the light directly any longer, he ducked his chin, staring at the floor instead.

“Did you sleep well?”  Red’s voice lilted with cruel humor.

Lancelot exhaled, slowly.  Don’t rise to the bait, he told himself.  Don’t play the man’s games.  The grain of the hardwood floor in front of him wavered as he tried to focus.  “Where’s Vane?”

He could hear the faint slur in his own voice.  His tongue was swollen.  The sleep he’d gotten had been the worst of both worlds, shallow enough that he was still exhausted and yet deep enough to leave him foggy from being awakened suddenly.  He had no idea of how much time had passed since Red had left him there.  His eyelids threatened to close at any second, but he clung to consciousness with sheer will.  The situation would hardly improve from here.  He’d simply have to deal with it.

“Your attachment to him is truly… awe-inspiring.  Such faithfulness, to think of him before your own comfort.  Still, is there nothing else you want?  A hot bath?  A soft bed?”

Lancelot slowly raised his gaze from the floor, looking into Red’s eyes with their crinkles of amusement around the corners.  The pain beat at him, urging him to give in.  To be let down, even if it was just to sleep… yes.  He wanted that.  But he wouldn’t ask.  He wasn’t that easy to break.

Red lifted a hand as he opened his mouth to refuse directly.  “No, I must ask you to refrain.  If you said ‘please’, I’d feel terrible when I had to deny you.  I think it would be best if you stay as you are for now.  First, let me explain your situation to you.  I’ve been remiss in leaving you in the dark to this point.”

Lancelot let the poor attempt at a joke fly by without dignifying it with a response.  “Vane,” he insisted.

Red came closer and crouched in front of Lancelot, casually resting one arm on his own thigh, his hand dangling next to his knee.  His long auburn hair draped over his shoulder, brushing the floor.  “Before we address that, let me make clear that I am interested in taking possession of you in the best condition possible.  This,” he said, waving his hand absently as if to encompass Lancelot and the chains which bound him, “is simply necessary.”

Possession?  The wording was peculiar, and the use of it sent a chill down Lancelot’s spine.  He shifted his weight uneasily, and Red smiled.

“Therefore, I have decided to employ your friend as an incentive.  While I offer you both my hospitality, there is precedent for one guest to stand assurance for another, particularly when the one shielded from consequence is of higher rank or otherwise privileged.  You are both, and so the onus will fall on him.”  Red pushed a stray lock of his hair behind his ear as he watched Lancelot, giving the declaration a moment to set in before he gave a little nod and continued.  “The rules of my house are simple: obey the host, offer him no violence, and do not leave the party early.  Simply follow these rules and your friend will be accommodated with all the resources I can provide.  Violate them, and I will be required to correct your behavior.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”  In short: be a model prisoner, or Vane would suffer the consequences.  The fancy language did nothing to hide the raw threat embedded in the words.  Lancelot’s fists clenched as he seethed at the implications.  Higher rank?  Privileged?  When the truth was that for some reason Red was fixated on Lancelot specifically and didn’t want him “damaged”?

“Yes,” Red said, lightly stretching out the word.  “It puts everything in a different light, doesn’t it, when the consequences are borne by another?”

The chains rattled; Lancelot lunged forward without even thinking as the anger took over.  He hadn’t truly expected fair play from someone who had taken a hostage, but the self-indulgent moralizing the man couched his threats in still drove his frustration to the boiling point.  “Don’t you dare touch him.  You wanted my surrender, didn’t you?  I’m here.  Let him go!”

Red didn’t stir from his relaxed crouch, though his eyes widened in false surprise.  “I assume you mean the content of our discussion before you accepted my invitation.  You feel that I have violated our terms by keeping your friend here after you agreed to join us.  In my eyes, however, it is you who transgressed.  Surrender involves a true intent to lay down one’s arms.  You never had such an intent.  Even now, you struggle.”  He lifted his hand and spread his fingers wide, his palm upright, as if to indicate the stretched chains and Lancelot’s tensed muscles.

Lancelot’s rage was strangling him, but with a last, angry yank at the chains, he fell still.  All he was managing to do was hurt himself further.  After a few heavy breaths, he growled, “I expected you to break your word.”

Red placed his hand over his heart, his shoulders dipping forward as if folding around a blow.  “Now, that truly hurts.  No.  When I am satisfied with your surrender, then I will indeed free your friend.  You have my oath on it.”

As if he could trust anything the man said.  It hardly mattered what Red wanted; Lancelot couldn’t give it to him, even if it was for Vane.  But for form’s sake, he asked the question anyway.  “What would satisfy you, then?  If not this, then what?”

Red smiled, slowly, as he leaned forward and stroked Lancelot’s cheek with the tip of a finger.  It was chill against Lancelot’s skin, and he reared back.  Red lowered his finger and settled his hand back on his knee, his eyes sparkling with amusement.  “Accept me as your lord.  Follow my commands without question.  Swear to me those things, and I will be satisfied.”

Nausea rose in Lancelot’s gut.  The thought of this man holding his oaths… King Carl had his flaws, but there was not an ounce of malice in him.  He always had the people of Feendrache in the forefront of his mind.  In contrast, Red was malice to the core, with a bare veil of twisted congeniality stretched over it.  The lines were drawn, and this was indeed as simple as he had thought.  And Vane… Vane would understand.  “Never,” he said.

“The very essence of the challenge.”  Red’s spread his hands wide, undaunted by Lancelot’s refusal.  “Perhaps it is impossible.  A principled man like you, ruled by honor and laws and justice.  Can someone like you be shaped to follow someone like me?  I _burn_ to know the answer to that question.”

The man was crazy.  Lancelot stared into Red’s brown eyes, taking in the widened pupils, the barely visible lighter flecks which by a trick of the light appeared almost crimson.  Excited, engaged, yes, but he didn’t look mad.  Isabella’s insanity had been written large upon her by the time she had died.  The loss of Alma had hollowed her out to the point that she had forgotten to take care of herself, leaving her hair a tangled, dirty mess and her clothing hanging off a body which was little more than skin and bones.  But he found Red’s intent gaze far more terrifying.  If this madman hadn’t announced himself with his kidnapping of Vane, and they’d simply met on the street in passing, would Lancelot have seen how dangerous he was?

Red settled back on his heels and stood, fussily brushing off his pants, though they hadn’t even been in contact with the floor.  “I believe we understand each other at last.  Now.  You were asking to see your friend, and it pleases me to oblige you.  After all, you attacked me without provocation, and your friend must bear the consequences of your actions.”

Lancelot’s breathing quickened as the meaning of Red’s words sunk in.  The implicit threat of violence loomed large, and Lancelot realized he had no idea what form Red’s “surety” would take.  Red thought nothing of leaving Lancelot here chained in the dark for hours, and that was with some care for his condition.  Red had already beaten Vane before.  If he wanted to make an example…  “Wait,” he protested.  “That was—”

Red had already turned to leave, but now he turned back, the corner of his lips turned up in a twisted smile as he savored Lancelot’s desperation.  “Yes, you only truly offered me violence in the clearing, before we returned.  But the time of the transgression is a trifle, insignificant.  You were aware of the situation your friend was in, and I had already made my expectations clear.  This was an outcome you could have predicted and avoided, were you interested in doing so.”

“What are you planning—Wait.  Stop!”

The door shut on his protests.

His head throbbed with pain as he stared at the closed door.  The silence of the room was deafening, but his ears pounded like drums with the beat of his heart.  He hadn’t expected Red to simply leave without giving Lancelot a chance to stop him.  His fingers felt chilled… the sudden rush of cold through his body made him shiver.  Vane…  Could he have made better decisions, different decisions?  Was there something he could have done?

No.  It wasn’t important now to look back.  Was there something he could do to stop Red when he returned?  Something which wouldn’t compromise Lancelot’s principles… but would convince Red to stay his hand?

Lancelot shook his head desperately.  Surrender… all Red cared about was surrender, and Lancelot couldn’t give him that.  But…  He swallowed, twisting his wrists against the unyielding steel of the manacles.  Red’s constant touching.  It wasn’t simply being trapped again which made Lancelot think of Isabella.  Red’s behavior reminded Lancelot of her as well.  And he knew what she had wanted, no matter how much he wished he didn’t.  But the thought of Isabella… of letting himself be touched like that… of _offering_ something like that… his breathing came in short, desperate huffs, the light dimming, the walls closing in around him.  And he didn’t even have any assurances… Red might simply… take… and then still go through with whatever he’d planned originally…

The door opened with a bang as it was thrown wide, striking the wall as it swung.  Lancelot jerked against the chains, startled by the sound and movement.  How much time had passed?  How much…? 

Vane fell through the open door as if shoved, taking a few clumsy hops forward before he lost his balance and crashed to the floor.  His ankles were chained with only a few inches of give between them, and his wrists manacled together in front of him.  A chain stretched between the two sets of manacles, ensuring that he couldn’t lift his hands above his waist unless he bent his knees.   The seeds of the black eye which Lancelot had seen in Red’s crystal had bloomed into a bright and swollen shiner, and Vane’s split lip was already scabbing over.  All he wore was pants; his shirt which he had been wearing in the image was gone.

Vane struggled to his knees and lifted his head, his teeth gritted and blue eyes burning with anger, and seemed to be about to turn and glare at Red, who stood in the doorway behind him.   Halfway through the motion he caught sight of Lancelot and stopped.   His blue eyes clouded with disappointment and frustration as their gazes met and he took in Lancelot’s condition.

Red gingerly stepped past Vane as the two knights stared at each other, closing the door behind him.  His voice was jovial as he said, “Sorry it took me so long.  He just refused to come along.  I hardly think he wants to see you at all!”

“Lancey,” Vane said sadly.  “You came.”

“I couldn’t abandon you,” Lancelot replied.

“Yes, yes, a touching reunion.”  Red reached down to grab Vane’s shoulder and half-pulled, half-shoved him forward until he the two knights faced each other, close enough to touch if they could only extend their arms.  Vane kicked his legs and twisted, his face red with effort, but Red hardly seemed to be fazed as he held the blond knight down on his knees, his eyes only for Lancelot.

Lancelot stared at his friend, seeing the cuts and bruises he’d missed from the tiny image in the crystal, and could hardly breathe.   He wanted to avert his eyes, but he met Vane’s pain-filled gaze anyways.  He still had no idea how to stop Red.

Vane seemed to realize it was useless to fight, shooting one final nasty glare at Red.  Then Vane drew in a deep breath and gave Lancelot a warm, confident smile.  “Well, we’re both here now, Lancey.  He can’t beat us together.”

“I believe you’ll find that I have deep reserves.”  Red dug his fingers into Vane’s shoulder, making him wince.  “Lancelot.  This is your chastisement.  I trust you understand that.”

“You don’t need to do this.  You’ve made your point,” Lancelot said.

“I believe you’ll understand better with a thorough demonstration,” Red replied, and shoved Vane forward, hard.  Vane’s forehead nearly hit the ground before he managed to stop himself, and Red was crouched beside him with a hand gripping the back of his neck before he could recover.

Vane struggled, his muscles visibly straining as Red forced him down until his cheek was pressed against the wooden floor.  The blond knight’s face flushed as he grunted with the effort of resisting.  Red seemed to be expending no effort at all.  The chains rattled as Vane growled, but what caught Lancelot’s attention was the dark red glow on Red’s other hand.  Red laid the hand flat on Vane’s shoulder, glancing at Lancelot briefly to ensure he was watching.  A large golden ring encircled Red’s index finger, covered with a spidery magical script and set with a ruby, the source of the glow.  The script flared to life as the spell locked in the ring activated.  Vane sucked in a gasp as the skin on his back, around Red’s fingers, began to redden.

Fire magic, Lancelot realized, and a particularly vicious type.  He’d read about this sort of spell before.  The heat the spell channeled forth would seep directly into Vane’s skin and muscle, the intent to torture and maim instead of kill.  He sucked in a breath and pulled against the chains, the only thought in his mind to get to his friend before it got any worse.  “Vane!”

“This isn’t anything…” Vane hissed, but he shook himself, trying to throw Red’s hand off.  Red leaned forward, placing his knee in the small of Vane’s back and digging the tips of his fingernails into Vane’s skin. His hair spilled over Vane’s lower back as blood welled up in the cuts left by his nails.

“But it burns, doesn’t it?” Red crooned over Vane’s head.  The reddened skin slowly spread from where Red’s hand rested, creeping up and over the shoulder, reaching out across the back and past the spine.  As the size of the affected area grew, the color of the skin near Red’s fingers went from bright red to maroon as the burn worsened.  Vane gritted his teeth in pain, racked by a shudder as a tiny groan escaped him.

“Stop this, now!” Lancelot cried.  His stomach turned at the cruel light which flickered deep in Red’s eyes as the man’s gaze flicked toward him.  “Enough!  I understand!”

“Clearly not nearly enough,” Red said, returning his attention to Vane.  The ruby’s glow suddenly brightened.  “Your manners are lacking.”

A scream ripped free of Vane’s throat.  He bucked against Red’s knee, but Red didn’t budge, just laughed under his breath.  Vane’s skin had begun to blister near Red’s fingers, like water in a pot boiling in slow motion.  The heads of the bubbles went from maroon to pale yellow hemispheres submerged in a blood red sea.  The scream rose to a higher pitch, breaking as Vane gasped for air, only to cry out once more. Here and there the flesh darkened to black, scaling and flaking as it died under the heat.  The scent of cooking, burning meat filled the air.  Red’s hand slowly moved down Vane’s back, leaving ruin in its wake.

“Stop.  Stop it!”  Lancelot cried out.  His gaze met Red’s again over Vane’s thrashing body, and Lancelot’s throat went dry at the unyielding expression he found there.  The moment stretched out as Lancelot realized what Red wanted.  Courtesy.  Manners.  _Please._ The words which emerged were more of a gasp, nearly drowned by the terrible sound of Vane’s suffering.  “Please.  Please stop.”

He must have been loud enough.  Red stood suddenly, the glow from the ring winking out as soon as his hand was no longer in contact with Vane’s skin.  But Lancelot only had eyes for Vane, who thrashed on the floor, still screaming.  The damage stretched over his entire back, most of it blistered, and in places the burns had gone deep, burning off the muscle and fat and down to the bone beneath.  It was bad.  Treatment wouldn’t be enough.  Just bandages and ointments wouldn’t fix what Red had done.  This needed magic.  And all… all because Red wanted a particular word…

“Do you feel properly chastened?” Red asked, drawing Lancelot’s attention back to him.  He was toying with the ring, twisting it around his finger and wearing a sly, self-satisfied smile.  “I’d hate if all this suffering was for naught.”

Rage lit inside of his chest and Lancelot lunged forward, the taut chains the only thing stopping him from trying to tear the man’s throat out.  “I will kill you,” Lancelot hissed.  His fists were clenched tight, the manacles digging into his wrists as he twisted, trying to find an angle which would bring him even a finger’s breath closer to Red.

“Apparently not yet,” Red said coldly.  He knelt next to Vane’s writhing body, waiting for a brief moment of stillness, and dug his fingers into the worst part of the knight’s burned shoulder.  Vane’s screams peaked, his voice high-pitched and void of sense, and then he collapsed to the ground, still.  Liquid spilled from the broken blisters, trickling down the blasted flesh, and the scent of cooked meat grew stronger.  Lancelot, horrified, collapsed down onto his knees as the rage left him.  He could barely see the faint motion of Vane’s chest.  Still breathing.  Still alive.  He closed his eyes, unable to look any longer.

“No, no, no.”  A snap of the fingers.  “There’s no point to this unless you watch.  Why do you think I brought him here in the first place?”  Red’s tone turned musing.  “Do you really understand so little?  I had hoped for better from you, Lancelot.”

Reluctantly Lancelot looked once more, taking shallow breaths and swallowing as his stomach tied itself into knots.  He gritted his teeth as he spotted the ruin of Vane’s shoulder, now gouged deep by Red’s fingernails.  Red lifted his hand from the wounds and flicked his pus and blood covered fingers fastidiously.  The gesture was ineffective, and only drew Lancelot’s attention to it… which was likely the point, driving home the damage he’d done.  And Vane… was so still on the floor.  The time stretched between each breath.  Each time Lancelot’s fear rose, wondering if the next breath was even going to come.

Vane was strong, but he was human.  His endurance had limits.  If Red did nothing… if Vane was just left there… if he didn’t receive any care….  And Red would leave him.  For all his talk of hospitality, he would let Vane die on the floor while Lancelot watched.  This waiting silence was evidence that he wanted something more, more than Lancelot had already given.  Lancelot’s chest ached.  He knew what Red wanted… at least in generalities.  The trappings of courtesy.  Unless Lancelot was willing to give up on Vane now, he had no choice.  “Please.  He needs healing,” Lancelot whispered.

“Alas, I am no healer, nor am I interested in summoning one.”  Red tilted his head, as if in thought.  His voice was sly as he continued, “Could I have been so foolish as to wound your friend beyond my capacity to heal him?  Is this the end of the party, so soon?”

“What do you want?” Lancelot asked, exhaustion creeping into the edge of his voice.  He couldn’t afford to be distracted; he’d already tipped his hand.  If he didn’t press Red to get to the point, he had the feeling that this conversation could go on for hours.  Vane didn’t have time for that, and Red knew it.

Red crouched in front of Lancelot, studying his face.  He lifted his clean hand and brushed a lock of Lancelot’s hair from his cheek to behind his ear.  Lancelot tensed, but held himself still.  Initiating a confrontation at this point wouldn’t get him to his goal faster.

Red’s eyes narrowed in pleasure.  “Hmm.  I believe I do have an idea of how we could resolve this problem.”  He retrieved a small jar from a pouch at his side, waving it in front of Lancelot’s eyes.  Lancelot recognized the label immediately: enchanted healing salve.  While not as quick as a potion, it was cheaper and suited for surface wounds. It would take days for Vane to heal, but the salve would stabilize him and stave off infection.  Properly and quickly applied, he wouldn’t even scar. Red placed the jar on the floor between them, clicking his tongue.   “But I’m not sure you could compensate me adequately… I think we’d have to settle for a verbal agreement.  An apology.  Ah, and perhaps a promise.”

Lancelot held his breath as Red leaned in closer.  His breath grazed Lancelot’s ear as he whispered, “Say, ‘I’m sorry that I attacked you.’”

Lancelot’s stomach twisted.  He wasn’t sorry for attacking Red at all; his only regret was that he hadn’t won.  Lie.  That was the unspoken command.

Red chuckled, his lips brushing the top of Lancelot’s ear.  Lancelot flinched.  “Don’t worry; I won’t believe you.  I can see the hate in your eyes.  Just say the words for me.  That will be sufficient.”

“I’m sorry that I attacked you.”  It came out wooden, noninflected.

“Good,” Red said, and Lancelot could hear the smile in his voice.  “Now, say, ‘I won’t do it again.’”

“I won’t do it again,” Lancelot repeated, staring at Vane.

“As long as we understand each other,” Red said brightly, pulling away.  “I had hoped this would be a sufficient demonstration.  However, now that you are thoroughly familiar with the rules of the house, I would have to stretch my imagination were you to violate them again.  A pound of flesh, perhaps?  No, too extreme.  But a token?  Maybe a finger?  I suppose it would have to depend on the degree of the transgression in question.”

Lancelot swallowed the harsh words which bubbled up in his chest and fixed his gaze on the floor.  His anger burned, but this wasn’t the time to give it free rein.  First he needed to secure Vane’s treatment.  Everything else would come afterward.

“Beautiful,” Red whispered.  Out of the corner of his eye, Lancelot saw Red slide another crystal into his pouch.  “Now that we’ve come to a better understanding, I think I can afford to extend you a little more freedom of movement.  I’ll even let you treat him yourself.  Can I rely on you to behave like a proper guest?”

The burns on Vane’s back would take time to heal, and Lancelot’s weariness was beginning to creep up on him once more.  Tactically, it was the best decision to concede this round and prepare for the next. Reckless charges didn’t win battles.  Patience.  Knowledge.  Preparation.  If his enemy was willing to give him the opportunity to obtain what he needed to triumph, then he should accept his foolish generosity, no matter how much he hated the idea of giving an inch to the one who had hurt Vane.  “I’ll obey your rules,” Lancelot said, and he meant it.

For now.  The unspoken words hung in the air as Red reached for his chains.


	7. Chapter 7

Lancelot’s fingernails grazed the bottom of the jar as he scraped out the final dollop of the medicinal cream.  Gently he smeared it over the last section of burned skin on Vane’s shoulder, then leaned back, studying his work.  Despite Lancelot’s protests to treat Vane carefully, Red had simply dumped him on the bed like a sack of potatoes.  Vane lay chest down on the mattress, his face turned to the side, still chained hand and foot.  The cream on his back was as evenly spread as Lancelot could manage with his fingers, a pallid white which did not entirely hide the ugly red, yellow and black colors beneath it, even though Lancelot had deliberately dabbed it thicker around the worst of the burns.  He had been slow, methodical, and above all, careful.  Even with all of that, several times Vane had trembled when he’d touched one of the blistered areas, obviously on the verge of waking up.  But now… now he should be fine.

Lancelot felt the tension go out of him as he stared down at Vane’s half-turned face on the pillow, the lines of pain which had creased it at the start finally absent.  Now Vane looked as if he was simply sleeping.  But Vane made the most ridiculous faces when he was dreaming, and there was none of that now, because this wasn’t sleep.  It was simple, plain unconsciousness.

With a sigh, Lancelot wiped his fingers on the side of the bed and reached over Vane to put the empty jar on the bedside table.  The chain dangling from his ankle rattled as he moved, and he flinched at the sound.  It was a silly reaction, since he wasn’t going to wake Vane in this state with something so trivial, but he sat back down more carefully.  He rested his back against the wall and sighed, staring at his friend for a few long moments then letting his gaze rove around the room as he assessed his new situation.

The chain on his ankle was attached to the next of the bed, and it was long enough to give him a little freedom of movement, but he still couldn’t get close to the door, let alone touch it.  The bookshelf seemed almost close enough to reach if he truly used every bit of give the chain had, but didn’t seem important enough to merit trying for it.  What was he going to do?  Use the books as improvised throwing weapons?  Ridiculous.  The table with its pitcher of water and the cups were accessible, and he could lay down on the bed.  The mattress was a bit cramped with Vane sharing it, but he had slept in worse conditions.  But these limits were apparently the shape of Red’s promised ‘freedom of movement’.

His vision swam as he racked his brain to identify anything he could use as a weapon or tool from the furnishings in the room.  The pitcher.  The cups.  The chairs.  Even the table, perhaps.  But he was already running on the barest threads of energy.  With a sigh, he slid down the wall onto his side, staring blankly at Vane’s face, his peripheral vision catching the slow rise and fall of Vane’s back as he breathed.  The mattress felt soft and the sheets were clean.  If there was any scent to the soap which had been used on them, it was overwhelmed by sweat and blood and the sharp, pungent sting of the medicinal cream in his nostrils.  The unpleasant mix of scents made Lancelot painfully aware of how much he needed a bath.  He smiled, unable to help himself.  The oddest things flitted across your mind when you were in the middle of a terrible situation.  He’d thought the same when Isabella had held him prisoner too.

Her lips, pressing against his.  Her tongue shoving itself into his mouth.  And her hands on his body…

Lancelot shook once, violently, his eyes shooting open.  Had he been falling asleep?  His chest felt tight, and his heart was beating so fast it felt like he was shaking.  He let out a trembling breath.  Vane was still right in front of him.  He reached out a hand and carefully placed it on Vane’s cheek.  Usually he’d have touched the shoulder or back, but that… wasn’t possible.

_I have to be strong.  Vane needs me.  We can handle anything together._

Vane’s hair was coarse under his fingertips, but that was familiar, and his friend’s breathing was slow and even.  He focused on Vane’s presence, reminding himself that his friend was right next to him.  For all the terrible things which had happened, Vane was still there.  Vane would be fine.  The salve would fix him.  The two of them would fight side by side once more.  They would defeat Red.  They would return to Feendrache.  There was no reason to lose hope.  He told himself these things over and over until his breathing calmed and he felt centered again.

As he pushed his fear away, he let go, too, of the idea of constructing a plan in that moment.  It felt like such a waste to let time pass him by when Red’s voice wasn’t there with its needling taunts and the pain was almost tolerable.  But any effort he tried to expend now would be wasted.  He knew he was in no condition to think his situation through rationally.  The only thing which had kept him moving through the aches and weariness of his overstressed body was the fear and anger Vane’s torture had woken in him, and the desperate need to treat Vane afterward.  An army couldn’t move on an empty stomach, and he couldn’t develop a strategy while trying to fight off his need for sleep.  He needed to conserve everything he had.  Tomorrow was soon enough.

With a quiet sigh, he let his eyes close and fell into slumber.

“Lancey,” Vane said softly.  “Lancey?”

Lancelot shook off sleep like a blanket, but found himself still tangled in drowsiness.  It seemed like hardly moments had passed since he’d laid his head down upon the pillow.  Full awareness of his situation came back to him in a rush, as the ache in his muscles clamored for his attention, the sensation of the manacle wedged into his ankle, and the horrible memory of Vane on the floor, screaming.  A shudder rocked him.

“Lancey?”  This time Vane sounded concerned.

“I’m fine, Vane,” he said, willing it to be so.  After those first few moments, his head had begun to clear.  The sleep had helped.  He sat up, looking down at his friend.  Vane looked far better than he had before.  There was a slight furrow in his brow, but that could as easily be due to his worry for Lancelot as from pain from the burns.  No, Lancelot corrected himself, even with the application of the cream Vane’s back would probably still ache.  It would probably itch, too, and Vane couldn’t afford to touch it as it was.  “How are you feeling?”

Anger and a hint of shame colored Vane’s expression.  “I can do anything you need me to.”  Vane jerked, as if trying to get up, then rocked partially up onto his side.  Pain flashed across his face for a moment, but he glanced down at his hands.  When he saw they were still chained, he yanked on them in frustration, then let out a sharp exhalation of pain as it aggravated his back further.

“Don’t,” Lancelot said.  “I treated your back with some healing salve, but if you scrape it off, it won’t be able to do its job.”  And Red definitely wouldn’t give him any more of it.

Vane’s spirit hadn’t buckled.  Lancelot hadn’t expected that it would, but neither of them had ever been this badly injured.  However, Vane’s resilience made it all the more important to advise caution.  The salve needed time to work, and Vane would need rest and food to replenish what the healing took from him or he’d simply collapse when his reserves were expended.  If only Red didn’t know that as well as Lancelot did…

“I’ll be careful.  I just…” Vane turned his head, looking at the door.  “He just left us here alone?”

“Yes, but he took precautions.”  Lancelot brought his knee up, showing Vane the manacle around his ankle.  “Can you tell me what happened?  How did Red capture you?”

Vane’s cheeks flushed with anger.  “I was sharing a drink in my tent with Gorlois, and the next thing I knew I was tied up in an airship.  I didn’t even realize what had happened at first.”  With a start, he looked up at Lancelot.  “Are the knights all right?”

Lancelot’s stomach twisted.  “I don’t know.  There were no reports of your disappearance by the time I left.  Wales had already arrived on their side of the border, right?”

“Yes.  Percival, too.”

Some of the tension went out of Lancelot’s shoulders.  “Then they must be fine.  Wales would have noticed anything seriously amiss with the camp, and they would have sent a messenger to Feendrache Castle.”  Red had said that he wasn’t interested in Feendrache, only in Lancelot.  While Lancelot didn’t trust Red to tell the truth, he had to admit that Red’s behavior had been consistent so far.  “We need to focus on ourselves right now.”

“Right.  Right,” Vane said, letting himself be convinced.  “So, what’s the plan?”

_I don_ _’t know._   The thought speared him.  Vane was looking at him to lead, and he had nothing.  Red had caught him off guard and had kept him off balance this entire time.  Every single step in this dance of blades seemed carefully crafted to ensure that he wasn’t thinking clearly.  It couldn’t have happened by chance; it had to be deliberate.  Just how much time had Red spent watching and researching him?  Lancelot caught himself holding his breath and exhaled, slowly.  Bringing the two of them together like this and giving them time to talk was his first mistake.  Red was not perfect.  Lancelot might not have a plan now, but he could develop one.  He just needed time and space to think.  “I need more information first,” he admitted.

“Well, he’s keeping me pretty far away from you,” Vane said thoughtfully.  “We walked for a long time from my cell to here.  Probably about the length of Feendrache Castle?  Let’s see… I think it was left, then through, uh, three intersections?  Maybe two.  Then right.  Then, uh…”

Lancelot burst into laughter.  The thought of Vane trying to give him directions… “I’ll figure it out.”

Vane gave him a slightly hurt look.  “That’s mean, Lancey.  Even I can’t get lost indoors.”

“I seem to remember that when you were a trainee, you accidentally ended up on top of the east tower when you were looking for the courtyard.”

“That was an honest mistake!”

“When you finally got down, your instructor said that your fellow trainees would be better off feeding the map to a horse and trusting his gut to guide them than letting you navigate,” Lancelot said, grinning.

Vane puffed his cheeks slightly, but after a few moments, he broke into a matching smile.  “He also said that if I was so bad at telling down from up that I might start flying before I knew it.”

Lancelot chuckled, but he could already feel the weight of their situation pressing down on his mood once more.  He looked towards the door.  It was still closed, and they were alone for now.  He sighed.

“Lancey?” Vane asked, craning his head curiously.

“I know this will be hard… but I don’t want you to fight him right now, Vane.  Not until you’re healed.  And not until I have a plan.”

Vane’s expression clouded, but it wasn’t long before he nodded.  “If that’s what you think is best.  I trust you.”

Sometimes Vane’s unquestioning confidence in him hurt.  His friend never feared to venture an opinion and advice, but when it came down to the final decision, Lancelot was usually the one who made it.  Vane nearly always went along.  But having the trust and confidence of his friend was also a source of strength.  Somehow, regardless of how bad the situation was, they always made it out together.  “I’m sorry,” Lancelot said.

“This is no more your fault than Isabella was, Lancey.  Sometimes bad people do bad things.”

“You’re right,” Lancelot said with another sigh.  It was just that seeing Vane in pain and knowing that decisions he had made had impacted that… But he wouldn’t make it through this if he was looking backward.  He needed to concentrate on the future, not the past.  “I’ll—”

Lancelot fell silent as he heard the click of the lock tumblers turning.  Moments later, the door opened and Red breezed in, leaving the door ajar behind him.  So he could be careless, at least under the right circumstances.  Vane was wounded and still chained up, and Lancelot’s ankle was chained to the wall. They would only be a threat if they had proper weaponry and the element of surprise, but it was still hope, and Lancelot held it close as he stared at Red.

“Am I interrupting?  I’m terribly sorry,” Red said.  “Unfortunately, your time is up.  I hope your conversation was fruitful, full of exciting plans for the future.”

Vane twitched uncomfortably, as if he’d been caught out.  It didn’t matter, of course.  Red had set this situation up, and it was possible that he’d even been observing them, perhaps via magic.  But Red was unpredictable, and Lancelot wasn’t sure how he’d react.  Indeed, Red’s eyes narrowed slightly and his smile widened.

“Should I be prepared for you two to ghost, then?  Oh, but you mustn’t tell me.  It has to come as a surprise.  It’s far more interesting that way.”  Red sauntered over to the side of the bed, staring down at them.

Lancelot surged forward, grabbing Red’s arm as he reached out towards Vane.  Red stared at him, a smile playing about his lips.

“Do we need another reminder?”

It was hard to fight the urge to dig his fingers in deeper and push Red away by force.  Instead, he let his grip weaken.  Red shook his arm free, but he made no attempt to grab Vane again.

“I would like it if you left him here until he heals,” Lancelot said, deliberately modulating his tone.  He couldn’t bring himself to add please to it.

Red shook his head, still smiling.  “No.  I can’t have my guests sharing a room, can I?  It implies I can offer them nothing better in the way of hospitality.  This was nothing more than an exception under trying circumstances.”

Leaving them together was off the table, then, was it?  Lancelot looked down at Vane, his mind working furiously.  His priority remained the same as it had been: ensure Vane healed properly.  The words would be sour in his mouth, but if it was the best chance Vane had, he could bend far enough to say them.  “Then I can trust that you’ll offer him your full hospitality?  That he will be treated as an honored guest, and denied nothing he needs?”

“Of course,” Red said, his eyes glinting in satisfaction.  “As long as he isn’t unruly.”

Lancelot and Vane had already discussed that.  Reluctantly, Lancelot leaned back, giving Red access to Vane.  Red nodded slightly, as if in approval, then grabbed Vane’s bicep in a single, swift motion and yanked him up and off of the mattress.  Vane wasn’t a small man, and it was obvious that Red was practically lifting him up as he did it.  It was just further confirmation of his raw strength.  When Vane was standing, he and Red faced each other, and the red on Vane’s cheeks and his furrowed brow made it clear that if his hands were free, he would probably have already thrown the first punch.

Lancelot held his tongue.  Vane knew what the best way to handle this situation was.  If he was just given a few moments, he’d calm down.

“Are you going to come quietly?  Or am I going to have to hurt you again?” Red said to Vane, his voice soft and poisonous.

Vane’s eyes narrowed, but then the tension suddenly went out of him, and he grinned.  “If you want a punching bag, look somewhere else.”

“Perhaps I will,” Red said, glancing at Lancelot.  But even though Vane gritted his teeth at the jab, he didn’t rise to the bait.  A little bit of the enjoyment went out of Red’s eyes as he jerked on Vane’s arm, pulling him out of the room.  Lancelot and Vane shared one last glance before the door shut firmly between them, and the lock clicked closed once more.


	8. Chapter 8

After Red left, Lancelot sat down at the table and carefully tested the water in the pitcher, dipping his finger into it and then letting a single drop fall onto his tongue.  It was room temperature, with a mineral tang to it, the taste no different from water taken from a fast running river.  His throat was dry as the desert and it was tempting to just drink and drink until his stomach was full, but after hearing how Vane had been taken, he felt even more cautious about eating or drinking anything which Red offered him.  He poured a cup from the pitcher and sipped from it carefully, rolling the water around on his tongue and concentrating on the feel of it in his mouth.  No tingle, sting, or numbness.  He swallowed and sat back to wait.  Drinking too much too quickly could cause water sickness, and some drugs needed to be ingested to work.  However, when several minutes had passed and he felt no obvious change in his body, he relaxed and took another, larger sip, then methodically began to study his surroundings once again.

The first thing he noticed was that there was no obvious keyhole on the door, though he had heard the heavy sound of tumblers rolling when Red had come or gone.  He had never seen a key being used, which made it likely to be a form of magic lock.  In that case, there might be no physical key to steal or copy, but wasn’t as hopeless a situation as it might first seem.  Red appeared to have some sort of special trick available to him – creating those crystals with visions in them – but it didn’t follow that he was a mage.  If the lock had been made for Red instead of made by Red, then it was likely that it would either work based on the presence of an object, essentially a key in a different form, or perhaps on some sort of recited phrase or drawn symbol.  If it was either of the latter, then Lancelot might even be able to acquire the key without Red’s knowledge.  He’d need to pay close attention the next time Red opened the door.  The same logic applied to the manacle around his ankle.  While it had locked automatically when closed, the lack of a keyhole meant that it probably worked by the same principle, perhaps, if he was lucky, on the same key.

His gaze swiftly passed over the place he’d been chained when he first arrived in the cell.  Even glancing at it made him uncomfortable, dredging up memories of Isabella’s dungeon, and now layered on top of that the sound of Vane’s screams and the lingering scent of burning flesh.  Reluctantly, he forced himself to really look at the chains, now hanging empty.  They felt out of place in this room, as if space for them had been carved out instead of designed naturally.  In the crystal which Red had shown Lancelot in the clearing, Vane hadn’t been chained up in anything like the same fashion.  And dimly, he could remember Red saying that he hadn’t expected exactly the reaction he’d gotten, implying that he had been expecting some reaction to the presence and design of the chains. It had been done deliberately.

How much did Red know about what Isabella had done?  Could Red be associated with Isabella or Gareth?

Lancelot took another deep drink from the cup, only then aware of how fast his heart was pounding.  This time he didn’t force himself to look back.  Whether Red was connected to Isabella didn’t matter right now.  What he needed was tools to help him escape. 

He had been teetering on the edge of exhaustion when he’d assessed the room for weapons before, but his mind was clearer now.  His gaze darted around the room as his thoughts spun.  Perhaps the table or the bed could be tipped up as cover or to cut Red off.  Lancelot gave the table a testing shove.  It moved, and the pitcher shook.  The wood was heavy, the work of a skilled carpenter, but it wasn’t fixed to the floor.  The bed looked much the same.  It was larger, and Lancelot figured it would probably be hard to lever it up onto its side. 

There were no utensils on the table and not a single sharp thing in the entire room.  The pitcher could be used as a blunt object, but he had his doubts it would be effective enough to be worth using.  He studied the bed again.  He could strip the blankets and use them to wrap around his arm as a sort of primitive shield, but it would only be effective against some weapons and would be worse than useless against others.  Red had carried a sword when they had met in the forest, but Lancelot couldn’t remember seeing it since he’d been locked in the room.  Any fight between them was likely to be barehanded, wrestling, and that seemed a bad bet to make with Red’s strength.  Unless they met outside the room, in a place where there were weapons — perhaps the reason Red always came unarmed was that he was concerned that bringing a sword into Lancelot’s presence might result in Lancelot taking it from him?  He had felt ineffective in the fight in the clearing, but if he caught Red off-guard, perhaps…

The possibilities flew through his mind.  There were too many open questions for him to feel comfortable acting yet.  But while the situation was still dire, that brief conversation with Vane had given him hope.  He took another sip from the cup and sighed.  His stomach grumbled, wanting food.  He had no idea when Red would be back, but he feared it would be soon.  What was the most effective way he could spend his time?

He didn’t get a chance to think about it before the sound of the lock focused his attention on the door.  There were no signs of runes or symbols reflected on the interior plate, leaving him still at a loss as to how the lock worked.  As Red entered with a strut in his step, Lancelot fought the urge to stand up.  He could feel the threat across his skin, demanding he rise to meet it, but as long as he didn’t intend to fight, he’d just be revealing his disquiet if he stood.  Instead, he stayed seated, bringing the cup to his lips and taking another sip.

His fingers trembled, just slightly, and he tightened his grip around the cup to make them go still.

“Ah, I thought I might have left you at loose ends.  Now that your friend is settled again, I realized I’d been remiss in providing you proper entertainment.  I wouldn’t want you to think my hospitality boring,” Red said as he approached.

“I don’t need anything,” Lancelot replied.  Was it impossible for the man to speak plainly?

Red placed a hand on the table’s surface.  As Lancelot had thought, Red wasn’t wearing his sword.  He filed that information away as he looked up into Red’s face, refusing to be cowed.  Red leaned down slightly, looming over him, a thick lock of his hair sliding over his shoulder to fall against Lancelot’s cheek and pool on the surface of the table.  “Are you rejecting my invitation?  Don’t you think that might be a touch… rude?”

Lancelot gritted his teeth, placing the cup back down on the table with a bit more force than he’d intended.  The surface rippled from the impact.  “More threats, then?”

“It’s boorish to belabor the obvious, but it seems to me that it might confuse your friend to be invited back to your room after departing so recently, and when he seemed to be so in need of a bit of rest.”

Lancelot’s gaze flicked back up to Red.  For a second he had thought the man was implying that Vane’s condition had worsened in transit, but he knew that Vane wouldn’t have struck out without provocation.  But there was no slyness in Red’s expression, just his usual, breezy needling.  Lancelot let his shoulders drop as he sighed.  He needed to give Vane a chance to heal.  “What do you have planned?”

“Let’s start with you taking off your shirt, shall we?” Red said cheerfully.

None of the possible outcomes of this were likely to be pleasant.  Lancelot tried to gauge how serious Red was, but as the man’s eyes narrowed slightly and his smile sharpened in a predatory fashion, he realized that Red would go fetch Vane and start carving pieces off of him without any hesitation, even over something so trivial.  He bit his tongue, but his motions were stiff and angry as he stood, Red stepping back out of the way to give him the bare minimum amount of room he needed to do so. Lancelot untied the laces on his shirt and pulled it over his head, dropping it on the floor.  The thought of Vane shirtless right before Red began torturing him flitted through his head, and his gaze went down to Red’s hand.  The ring was still there.

Well, if Vane could endure it, Lancelot could as well.

He must not have taken enough of the water.  His throat was bone dry again.

Red took a step forward, leaving only a few bare inches between them.  Malice rolled off of the man in waves, and Lancelot realized that he had unconsciously balled his hands into fists.  He wanted, needed the hilts of his swords in them.  This meek compliance ran against his nature.

“Lend me your hands, Lancelot,” Red said, pulling a pair of manacles from behind his back.  The chain was short, only a couple of links.  It would be awkward to strangle someone with them, but it still might be possible.  But could this mean that they were going to leave the cell?  It could be an opportunity to gather information, if nothing else.

“Are we going somewhere?”  Lancelot asked as he lifted his hands.  Red snapped the bracelets around his wrists.  As with the manacle around his ankle, there was no pin or key needed.  They simply seemed to lock as soon as the halves met.

Red ignored his question, running his thumb up Lancelot’s arm as he circled around behind him.  “You have some scars.”

Lancelot pulled away roughly.  Red hadn’t told him to be still, and he’d use what freedom he had.  He didn’t want to be touched.  “I’m a knight.” Lancelot said stiffly.  Some of those scars weren’t from fighting, though.  Some of them were from Isabella.  His palms were damp as he pressed his thumbs into them, trying to stop himself from lashing out.

“Stay where you are, if you would,” Red said.  Lancelot tensed as a black cloth was placed over his eyes and tied tight behind his head.  No chance of seeing how Red worked the lock, then.  It would be fine.  There would be other opportunities.  He didn’t need to be able to see right this moment.

“Don’t you think this is a little exc—”

Cloth was pulled tight into his mouth, cutting him off.  Another gag.

“I believe in a certain thoroughness.”  Red laid a hand across the back of his neck, squeezing gently, but with a hint of the terrifying strength lurking behind it.  “Bind a man’s hands and he thinks of escape.  Blind him, and it wakes the primal fear of the unknown.  But to take his voice on top of that?  The voice is the purest expression of intellect.  To control it is to control a man’s mind.  Perhaps you would never consider begging or pleading for mercy if the choice wasn’t taken from you, but knowing that you’re unable to… it makes the thought of doing so inescapable.”  Red traced Lancelot’s spine with a cold fingertip and Lancelot staggered forward a step, trying to evade it.  His thighs bumped the edge of the table, and Red grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back to where he’d been standing moments before.

He shouldn’t be frightened.  He wasn’t as helpless as he seemed.  The manacles wouldn’t stop him from taking off the blindfold or the gag, and his hands were in front of him.  The only thing truly restraining him was Red’s threats against Vane.  All of these things were just… trappings.  Symbols.  They didn’t mean anything.  But the sensation of Red’s fingers curling around his shoulder made him feel weak.

Lancelot jerked in surprise as the manacle suddenly fell free of his ankle.  He hadn’t noticed Red leaning down.  He still felt Red’s presence at his back as large as before; the hand was even still on his shoulder.  And he hadn’t heard anything like a keyword.  He would have thought that Red would have to touch the manacle to free it, but that… couldn’t be possible.

“Let us change the venue, shall we?” Red said, shifting his grip to Lancelot’s left arm and pulling him forward.

It was disorienting being blindfolded, and Red had a habit of jerking him about, but he counted his steps and turns as best as he could as they walked through the complex.  The chance was vanishingly small that Red was taking him to Vane, but Lancelot couldn’t dismiss the possibility.  Even if they weren’t going to where Vane was being held, every piece of information was precious. 

They didn’t go far.  Left out of the door, fourteen steps, a right turn, thirty more steps, then a sharp left which felt like they nearly turned straight around.  Nine more steps, a pause, and then a turn to the left.  No sound of a turning lock, but the faint sound of hinges squeaking: a door.  He didn’t hear the hinges again after they passed through, so Red had probably left it open.  It couldn’t be Vane’s cell, then.  There was a very slight downward incline in the stone floor as Red propelled him forward.  Four steps.  Red let go of his arm, but then the chain between his wrists was suddenly grabbed and pulled high above his head, forcing him onto his toes… and hooked there.  His fingers quested for the form of the thing which held him, but aside from being a curved bit of metal, he couldn’t tell the shape of it.  A normal hook would have let him back down on his feet as the chain slid down to the base of it.  This… he wasn’t sure how to get himself off of it.  Even if Red would let him.

But he knew this setup.  It would be some sort of torture.  His breath was coming quickly now, warm against the gag in his mouth.  His shirt being removed… maybe a lashing.  He’d seen it done before, though never suffered it himself.  Or Red could be planning to burn Lancelot like he had Vane.  The differing circumstances were strange, and Red had said he wanted Lancelot undamaged… but perhaps his thoughts had changed.  Maybe it was a matter of degree, or perhaps he already had the salve ready.

Hands grabbed the waistband of his pants and yanked them down, exposing him.  He struggled, startled, but a few swift tugs stripped him of his last item of clothing, leaving him naked.  The air wasn’t cold, but he began to shiver.  He fought to swallow through a throat gone tight.

Red laid a hand on his hip, stroking it with his thumb.  “Not what you were expecting, I think?  I do pride myself on the element of surprise.  I have another little treat for you as well.”

It was still possible that it could simply be a lashing.  Lancelot held onto that thought with everything he had.  A lashing suddenly seemed far better than anything else that Red could do in the current situation.

“Unfortunately, your mouth is occupied, so I prepared an alternative method of delivering it.”  A hand grabbed one butt cheek and pulled lightly.  Something cold and moist pressed against Lancelot from behind, seeking entry.

“Mmph!” Lancelot protested against the gag.  His toes scraped against the stone, trying to either move away or get the chain of the manacles free from whatever was holding them in place, but Red nudged his leg, throwing him off balance and leaving him dangling.  The man’s laughter echoed in his ears.  Lancelot twisted, the manacles cutting into his skin, but Red’s leg wrapped around his, holding him still.

“Relax for me, Lancelot.  I don’t wish you to hurt yourself over such a trifle; it might bring unfortunate consequences down the line.”

Relaxing was impossible.  Lancelot bit deep into the gag as Red pushed the thing inside of him, forcing him open.  A jolt of pain went through him and in its wake his flesh stung and burned.  Whatever Red’s ‘alternative’ was, it was smooth, slick, and just wide enough that he could feel his inner walls throbbing against it as it moved.  The wrongness made him shake like a leaf.  Red was taking his time, humming softly under his breath.  But eventually the man seemed satisfied, and his fingers withdrew, leaving the thing where it was.

Lancelot’s breath was coming too quickly.  He couldn’t get any air around the gag, and the room suddenly felt a lot colder, his skin pricked by tiny needles.

“Shh,” Red whispered.  “Relax.”  He leaned against Lancelot’s back and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling the two of them tight together.  Red’s hand rested on his thigh, close to his groin.  It wasn’t comforting.  Nausea churned in Lancelot’s stomach.  Either he was getting accustomed to the thing inside of him, or it was getting smaller.

As Red rubbed the inside of his leg, Lancelot’s breathing slowed and deepened.  Behind the blindfold, his eyes closed, cutting off the tiny bits of light which had found their way around the cloth.  His knees bent and his ankles relaxed.  Now that he was no longer fighting for footing, the only thing the soles of his feet found was air.  His entire weight was hanging from the manacles, and his heartbeat was nothing but heavy, punctuated thumps.  Distantly, he knew he was still frightened, but his body no longer seemed to recognize it.  Even the pain had faded to something indistinct and unimportant.

Had Red even left anything inside him at all?  Maybe… it had just been the lingering feel of the man’s fingers… He didn’t have experience with these things.  He had just thought he had felt…

“Much better, don’t you think?” Red said, his voice soft.  He straightened, placing a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder and then sliding it in to cup his neck.  Lancelot’s skin tingled in the wake of Red’s touch.  “I pride myself on my meticulousness.  Most have such quaint concepts of ownership, believing that it rests with simple possession of an object.  But can you say that you own something if you do not understand it?  If you do not know, intimately, how it will behave in any situation?  This form of ownership is difficult to apply to animals, for they tend to be unpredictable.  But I enjoy the challenge, and I’ve developed my own techniques.  Do you like this one?  There’s no struggling, no fighting, and no deception.  Stimulus and response.  Pure and untainted.”  Red chuckled, suddenly.  “Something seems to have caught your attention.  Let’s discover what you like, shall we?”

“Mm.” It should have been an angry denial; it sounded like assent.  Lancelot shook his head slowly.  Was this… a drug?  All his care with the water and then this… the thought flitted away before he could follow it to its conclusion.  Red’s hand on his neck was warm, a pleasant heat sinking into his skin in contrast to the chill of the room.  The thumb toyed with the line of his hair.

Red laid his other hand on the outside of Lancelot’s upper thigh.  “It is a pity I can’t get any answers out of you in this state.  Like these scars.  Not the result of weapons, I think.  Isabella’s work?  How much did she take from you?”  He captured a bit of Lancelot’s skin between his thumb and index finger and twisted, hard.

Even through the fog, the pain was sharp.  Lancelot groaned.

“I believe I begin to understand the source of her failure with you,” Red mused.  He stroked the inflamed skin.  “Not much for pain, are we?”

Red stepped back and laid his hands around Lancelot’s thigh, stroking downward, slowly.  The sensation of every fingertip was distinct against Lancelot’s skin.  He couldn’t seem to block it out, or direct his mind elsewhere.  His thoughts were pinned to those points of contact between them, dragged inexorably along as Red’s hands moved.  Lancelot gasped against his will and felt his groin tighten as Red’s thumbs tickled the back of his knee.

“Ah… there’s a more satisfying response.”  Red’s hands stopped, then returned to the knee, tracing the line of the tendons underneath the skin.  Lancelot shook his head, silently.  He was burning up, and the feel of Red’s fingers was nearly unbearable.  It felt good, and it made him sick.  If he could have kicked Red away he would have, but his efforts to move only bought him a tiny twitch.  His thoughts scattered.

It was Isabella all over again, only worse.  She’d wanted a reaction out of him, but it had been clumsy, driven only by what she wanted.  When he hadn’t given her what she was looking for, she’d lashed out at him.  Red was paying too much attention.  He could feel the man’s gaze on him, weighing, studying, learning.

“I could bring your friend in here,” Red said, thoughtfully, his hands moving on.  He lightly pinched the back of Lancelot’s ankle, brushed a thumb over the top of his toes.  Finally, he rested his palms over the top of Lancelot’s feet, his thumbs curling around the ankles to rest over the joints.  Lancelot shivered.  It was a reprieve of sorts, but it didn’t stop the tingling of his flesh where Red had already touched him.  Red laughed.  “Would you like him to watch as I figure out how you work?  Perhaps he could learn something."

The thought of Vane watching this chilled him.  They had few secrets between them, but he didn’t want to think that this might surface in Vane’s mind during their conversations.  He’d never told his friend what Isabella had done.  And Lancelot knew that Vane would never bring anything like that up.  Not deliberately.  But… Lancelot shuddered.  And Red’s hands began to creep up the inside of his legs.  His nerves were already smoldering, and this was like a gust of wind, feeding the fire.  He threw his head back, crying out into the cloth in his mouth.  Distantly, he heard Red chuckle.

_Stop_ _… please…_ Revulsion beat against the force of his arousal.  Red’s thumbs rose higher, caressing the inside of his thighs, and he trembled.  But right before they reached the balls, they stopped.  Relief flooded him, but his entire body beat with the force of his heart.  When Red finally removed his hands, he went limp, gasping desperately for air around the cloth.

“I think it’s a bit too soon for that, don’t you?” Red said.  “And yet you seem to crave more.”

Lancelot shook his head, dizzy.

“Ah, but I don’t think I trust you.  I trust this,” Red said.

The short, sharp, tiny little pain as Red flicked a fingernail against his cock made Lancelot jerk.  He could feel the change in the air as Red stood up in front of him, placing a hand against the side of his neck.  It was fake tenderness, reminiscent of a lover caressing their loved one.  But he could imagine the cruelty on Red’s lips, the feverish brightness in his eyes.  Red pressed close, his lips right next to Lancelot’s ear.  “Don’t you wonder how far I’m going to go with this?”

How helpless he was suddenly hit him in a wave.  This drug, whatever it was, made him unable to resist.  What Red had done so far was almost trivial compared to what he could do.  Even if Red let him down from these manacles, his muscles wouldn’t suddenly start obeying his commands.  Red’s thumb stroked the edge of the gag where it cut into his lips.  Lancelot tried to turn his head away and failed.  His cheek was already pressed tightly into his arm.

“I told you that I wanted everything from you, didn’t I?” Red whispered.

_Don’t._

Red leaned back, leaving cool air in his wake, but then fingers gripped Lancelot’s chin, turned his head forward.  Red’s voice was low and quiet and filled with confidence, and Lancelot could see Red’s face in his mind’s eye, as if their gazes were locked through the blindfold.  “Someday, I will lay you on the bed and you will let me take everything from you.  I won’t need drugs to keep you compliant.  I will own you completely.”

_Never._   It was a promise to himself, but his short, terrified breaths made it into the kind of promise that village children exchanged in the dark when the monsters roamed outside.

“You’ll come when I snap my fingers.  You’ll beg for the touch of my hand.”  Red’s voice was like a caress, drawing an unwilling rise out of him.  Lancelot didn’t have to believe him – he clung to that.  Red was the enemy.  Red could say whatever he wanted; all of his confidence didn’t make it real.

“See?  You’re closer than you think.”  Red’s hand suddenly laid against his cock caught him off guard.  Lancelot stiffened, a chill going through him.  He couldn’t remember whether he had been hard before Red had touched him, but he was hard now.  It was impossible that he had been turned on by Red’s words.

It was impossible.

“But not today, after all,” Red added softly, and laughed as he stepped away.  “I find anticipation is the best spice.”


	9. Chapter 9

Isabella’s fingernails dug into his leg while her lips pressed against his.  The kiss was wet and sloppy, her tongue insistently trying to force its way past his lips.  He kept his teeth locked shut, refusing her.  It seemed like it had been going on for hours.  When she finally pulled away, relief flooded him.  Then came a sharp crack as she slapped him across the face.

He licked the blood away from the corner of his mouth and tried to figure out how much more he could stand.

But when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor, it wasn’t Isabella there, but Red.  Lancelot’s heart stalled in his chest.  And when Red leaned forward, Lancelot leaned up, opening his mouth to accept the kiss which Isabella had never managed to force on him.

Lancelot woke with a start, shuddering violently.  He was sweat-soaked from brow to toes.  Just a nightmare.  He could still clearly remember the feeling of Red’s fingers crawling over his skin, but everything past the point where Red had touched his cock was hazy and unclear.   Red’s hand warm against his thigh… but had that happened before, after, or both?  He’d been carried back to the room, his body limp across Red’s arms.  No, that must have happened last.  The drug had been wearing off by then, but Lancelot had barely been able to concentrate, and he didn’t remember lying down on the bed.  He must have fallen asleep at some point.  The transition between consciousness and the dream had been seamless.

He curled defensively, wrapping his arms around his chest and drawing his knees up to his stomach.  Every inch of him felt defiled.  It was hard to remember a time when he hadn’t been in pain.  The only part which seemed to rise from the background noise was the throbbing ache inside him from where Red ripped him open.  Just thinking about it made him sick, but the pain was insistent.  Relentless.  As if he was being forced again…

He barely made it to the chamber pot before he threw up.

There wasn’t much there, so he retched a frothy, clear liquid, his stomach spasming over and over until he was exhausted.  All he’d had since he’d been captured was water.   He shivered on his knees, staring into the bottom of the copper pot with its faint sheen, gathering himself together as his stomach fought to rebel.  He swallowed once, then again as the sour taste in his mouth puckered his lips and tried to bend him over the lip of the pot once more.  Eventually the spasms calmed, and he lurched to his feet.  His lips stung and burned.  He needed something to wipe his mouth with.  Finally, reluctantly, he returned to the bed and pulled out a corner of the sheets near the foot.  He should wash the sheets, he thought, staring at the darkened spot with a humorless smile.  Wouldn’t Vane laugh if he heard Lancelot thinking like that?

He was still naked.  The only thing on him was the manacle around his ankle, still fixed to the wall.

Lancelot slowly levered himself off the floor and back onto the bed.  He sat there until the room stopped spinning.  The sheets were smooth underneath his legs, and he realized he was trembling.  He should try to get some water down, at least.  Hydration was important.  A man could go for a long time without food as long as they had water.  He looked towards the table, which still had its pitcher and cup, and noticed the one thing which was out of place.   Clothing.  Neatly folded.  Black and crimson red.  A slow sweep of the room made it clear that the original shirt he’d worn had been taken away.

He was almost certain that the clothes hadn’t been there when Red had brought him back.  His memories were vague, but he didn’t remember anything out of place.  The fabric was obvious against the light wood of the table.  It would have been hard to miss.

Red had been in there while he was sleeping.

Another wave of nausea crashed over him.  He swallowed, desperately.  There wasn’t anything left to throw up.  His mouth stung, inundated with that sour, bitter taste.  He sat still, concentrated hard, and eventually the urge passed.

Lancelot got to his feet and went over to the table.  Some of the water spilled from the pitcher as he poured it into the cup.  The pitcher was heavy and unwieldy; he couldn’t remember it being so heavy before.  His arm muscles were weak, exhausted, and he remembered with a start that he’d been hanging by them.  He set it back down with a weighty thud, hearing the water slosh inside of it.  As he turned his hand palm down, he noticed that his skin was cut with deep lines of red where the manacles had dug in.  The pain hadn’t even registered, but now that he had seen the results, he could pick out that pain from the rest, the acid itch of hot wires pressed into his wrists.

With effort, he dismissed the thought.  He brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip.  His legs were shaky, but he didn’t want to sit down.  It would hurt.  And he let that thought pass through, rushing it on its way out, pretending he hadn’t thought any such thing, and concentrated on taking another sip of the water.  His jaw and mouth ached too.  He remembered the feel of his teeth biting and grinding into the gag.  Another thing he didn’t want to think about.  He pushed the memory aside.

After he had finished a third of the cup of water, he reluctantly set it down and lifted the red shirt which had been left on the table.  The design was odd.  There were buttons down the entire front of it, which was unusual, but not unacceptable.  However, buttons lined the shoulder all the way up to the neck and back down the sleeves to the cuffs.  You could wear it like a normal shirt without any issues, but he couldn’t see a point…

His hands bunched the cloth into his fists as he realized the purpose to it.  Red could take this off of Lancelot even if he was chained up.  It was a promise: what had happened would happen again.  And the black trousers which had been left underneath the shirt laced up the sides.  Of course, with one leg chained, he wouldn’t have been able to put them on otherwise.  One of the sets of laces had even been left undone.  Very considerate.

The room seemed hazy, indistinct.  His chest felt tight.  He stood there, holding the shirt, and tried to think of nothing.  Not of the pain.  Not of the promise.  Certainly not of Isabella.  Just nothing.  And eventually the room settled back into place, the shirt hanging loosely from his fingers, which had relaxed while he’d forgotten himself.

Lancelot was tempted to leave the clothes there, but wearing something which could be taken off easily was a thousand times better than facing Red naked.  So he struggled into the clothing and tried to ignore the peculiar sensation of the gaps in the shirt he was wearing.  It felt like it could fall off at any second.  The trousers just made him feel exposed.  They made it slightly easier to sit down, though the pain still flared up.  He wrapped his hands around the cup of water he’d poured and let out a long breath.  If he let his mind rove back across what had happened the day before, he could feel his muscles tense and his concentration start to fracture.  He could deal with that, he told himself.  Maintaining focus was critical in battle.  He had practice.

Another sip.  Vane should still be fine.  Healing.  Red hadn’t made any further threats.  Another day had passed – that was another day which Siegfried and Percival had to track them down.  And he wasn’t chained in the corner.  All of these things was positive.  But he could still remember the feel of Red’s hand on his cheek, touching his hair, and…

The cup shook in his hands.  They were trembling again.  With effort, he steered himself away from the memories and took several more deep breaths.  He desperately wanted something to distract himself.  The bookshelf, just out of reach, taunted him, as it was probably meant to.  _Comply_ , it said in Red’s voice.  _Ask, and I might be generous.  I do like the word_ _‘please’._

Lancelot felt his jaw lock as he slammed the cup down on the table; he didn’t have to just sit meekly by, imagining Red’s reactions and trying not to provoke the man too badly.  That was the way to lose.  He hadn’t been told he couldn’t read the books on the bookshelf.  He wasn’t trying to escape and he wasn’t offering Red any sort of violence, no matter how much he wanted to.  The only thing stopping him was the manacle.

Pushing himself out of the chair, he walked over to the very limits of what the chain would allow him and studied the intervening space.  Even if he lay down on the floor and reached out as far as he could, he’d still be a foot or two short of reaching the bookshelf.  He glanced around the room, looking for something which might extend his reach.  The issue was that he’d need to find something to catch onto the spine of a book, strong enough to pull it towards him.  If he had a hook of some sort, that would be one thing.  But a hook was also close enough to a weapon that he couldn’t imagine Red leaving something like that around.  The man couldn’t be infallible, but he did seem to be thorough.

Lancelot narrowed his eyes and turned back to the table.  The chairs weren’t fixed to the floor.  If he grabbed them by the legs or back, it might be long enough to hook around the side of the bookcase.  It was only half-height.  Surely it couldn’t be that heavy.

He swept away the quiet voice that was nervously asking him what Red might do in response, and put his plan into action.  The chair felt a little less sturdy than he would liked given the size of the bookcase, but he rested it on its side on the floor and laid down next to it.  It took several attempts before he could hook the seat of the chair around the edge of the bookcase, but he managed.  And with gritted teeth, he pulled.

The wood of the chair cracked, but the bookcase moved first.  Lancelot caught the wall of the bookcase with the tips of his fingers and pulled it closer.  It came away from the wall a bit – no secret passages, unfortunately – but he got the books within easy reach.  He sat in front of the bookcase, studying the titles more carefully, but eventually decided on what had already been his first choice: Basic Tactics.  It had caught his eye when he’d first been brought in here, he’d read it so many times he could practically recite it from memory, and now, when he was already stressed, he could use the reminder of the fundamentals.  He might not be leading an army, but this was no less a battle or a war than any other situation he’d found himself in.

_I won_ _’t surrender without a fight_ , he told himself, and cracked the book open.


	10. Chapter 10

Several hours later, the one thing Lancelot was having trouble ignoring was the grumbling of his stomach.  It almost seemed to be providing a lively commentary on the book he was reading, chiming in at the worst times.  “Let us consider the case of the battle of Wendrich’s Gorge, where the origin of the conflict lay in…” the sentence would begin, and then Lancelot’s stomach would rumble as if trying to remind him that wars often started because of a conflict over critical resources, like food.  The pain was starting to recede into the distance as his growing hunger replaced it, and the water was no longer staving off his cravings.  He had gone through nearly three-quarters of the pitcher already.  With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and then hefted the book once more.

When the lock turned, he startled like a wind rabbit.  He had known that Red wouldn’t leave him alone indefinitely.  Eventually his captor would come back and see that the room had been rearranged.  But now, faced by the situation he’d known was inevitable, his nerves jangled.  He gripped the book harder, creasing the pages, then forced himself to relax.

When Red strode through the door, his eyes widened and he came to an abrupt stop just inside as he noticed the bookshelf had been moved.  His gaze quickly landed on Lancelot, sitting in the chair and holding the book.  Lancelot met his gaze evenly, not certain he was entirely able to hide his fear, but he didn’t quail.  Red’s eyebrows pulled together and his already thin lips almost disappeared as he launched back into motion, striding toward Lancelot.  As Red bore down, Lancelot quickly placed the book on the table, but didn’t otherwise move.  He only flinched slightly when Red grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.  Red’s fingers slid through one of the gaps between the buttons lining the sleeve, fingertips strangely cold against Lancelot’s skin.  The chain hanging from Lancelot’s ankle manacle rattled, which caught Red’s attention…  and then Red glanced around the room again and laughed.

It wasn’t a pleasant sound, too high-pitched and breathy, but it was filled with more real humor than Lancelot had heard from Red to that point, and it was the first time he thought his captor had been genuinely surprised.  The thought gave him hope.  Red shoved him back down into the chair with a last dry chuckle and stepped back, his left hand playing with the lace around his right wrist.  “Should I take this as an indication I have not provided sufficient entertainment to keep you occupied?”

“I like to read,” Lancelot replied, placing a hand on the cover of the book.  Red’s closeness made him jittery.  He was still painfully aware of how Red’s fingers had felt on his arm, the unpleasant chill lingering even after Red had let go.

Red walked over to the chair Lancelot had broken pulling the bookshelf and lifted it up casually by the back.  It should have been at least a little unwieldy – it had been, for Lancelot – but Red showed no indication of finding it heavy at all.  He shook it slightly, and it creaked.  “Destroying my furniture for the sake of a book?  I thought I had shown myself to be more than accommodating to properly phrased requests.”

It echoed Lancelot’s own reasoning why Red had placed the bookshelf out of reach, and how Red had wanted him to react.  The fact he had been able to read the situation centered him, and he let out a relieved sigh under his breath as he replied, “You weren’t here to ask.  If I’ve inconvenienced you, I’d be happy to leave with Vane at any time.”

“No, I insist you stay.  You haven’t plumbed the depths of my hospitality yet,” Red said, but his tone was strangely distant.  He brought the damaged chair over to the door and handed it through.  Lancelot caught a glimpse of a young face framed with dark hair through the gap, but whoever it was disappeared before Lancelot could see much more than that.  The door swung shut, but did not latch, the edge just resting against the jamb.

That had definitely not been Vane, Lancelot thought.  While he had thought when he had first arrived that Red might have servants or accomplices, he had changed his mind since then, deciding that Red had been acting alone, since he’d neither seen or heard anyone else.  The underground space seemed huge, but he had convinced himself that most of it must be abandoned, and Red had only been planning for something larger scale in the future.  Now he had to rethink his assumptions.  It was possible that there could be other prisoners as well… but they wouldn’t be walking around like that, surely?  A servant?  But the person he’d glimpsed had seemed so young.

Red came back over to the table and sat down in the remaining chair, leaning back casually and steepling his fingers as he looked at Lancelot, considering.  “I had originally planned to wait a few more days, let matters proceed naturally and give you a chance to accustom yourself to my household, but if you are impatient enough to resort to property destruction, I suppose I have no choice but to accelerate my time line.  We can discuss things as you take a bit of refreshment.  I can’t have you wasting away on me before we even begin.  Bring the tray in, boy.”

The child Lancelot had glimpsed earlier pushed through the door.  He was human, in his early teens, with ragged black hair like it had been hacked off with a knife with little care to the final result.  His clothing was similar to what Lancelot was wearing, black trousers and a red shirt, though without the ridiculous buttons; it had been sewn together properly, yet it hung off the boy as if he suffered from a wasting disease.  The boy’s gaze was fixed on the floor as he came in.  A plain wooden tray with a wooden bowl and a half a loaf of bread was balanced on his hands.  As he approached the table, he slowed, glancing at Lancelot briefly.  Then he put the tray down on the table in front of Lancelot with a thump, spilling some of the liquid sloshing in the bowl over the side to drip onto the tray.  He scuttled back quickly, as if frightened.  Was he afraid of Lancelot, or Red?  The boy’s furtive glance at Red seemed to settle the issue.  Another prisoner, then?

“Wait by the door,” Red ordered, then turned his attention back to Lancelot.  Lancelot’s gaze followed the boy as he did as he was told.  He didn’t lean against the wall as Lancelot had expected, instead standing with his hands clasped in front of him and his back hunched.

“I see that Vane and I aren’t the only ones you’ve kidnapped,” Lancelot said, testing his guess.

Red shrugged fluidly.  “Everything can be improved with diligent practice.  I needed to thoroughly familiarize myself with your people and your customs before I could challenge myself with a demanding guest, one I was certain I wanted to impress.”  He glanced at the boy, his mouth curving in a sly smile.  “I am quite happy with how he turned out.  There were some failures before him, but… well.  Practice does make perfect.”

The boy didn’t even twitch, nor did the expression on his face change.  He couldn’t be deaf, for he’d responded to Red’s commands, but it was as if he didn’t even realize or care that Red was talking about him.  His gray eyes were glassy, empty, as he stared at the floor a few feet in front of him.  Lancelot’s hand on the book was clenched into a fist now, white-knuckled.  His treatment and Vane’s were one thing, but this was a _child_.

“Please, eat,” Red said, waving a hand at the food.  “It’s unseemly to concern yourself too much with the servants.  A guest should think of their own comfort first.  He will still be here when you have finished.”

It took effort to make his hand unclench, and his fingers twitched as he laid his palm flat on the book, trying to bank his own anger.  He couldn’t afford to start a fight now.  If Red had touched the boy in front of him, he might have struck out anyway.  He wasn’t sure he could have held himself back.  But he knew this wasn’t the right time to act.  Red had outright told him to eat, and that meant Vane’s health and well-being was on the line as well.  None of that would matter if he could change the boy’s situation, but he didn’t have a plan.  It would be nothing more than recklessness.

Slowly, mechanically, Lancelot reached for the bread and tore a piece off with perhaps a bit more force than was really necessary.  The bowl was filled nearly to the brim with a clear broth, and he smelled meat, though there weren’t any scraps in the bottom of the bowl.  Steam rose from the surface.  He dipped the piece of bread into the thin soup and brought it to his mouth.  The taste of salt and chicken fat spread across his tongue as he chewed.  Nothing like Vane’s cooking, but better than no food at all.

“Now, as I was saying before the conversation lost its course… Ah yes.  How long do you think it would take the knights to find you?  Realistically.”  Red’s legs were crossed, at ease as he watched Lancelot eat.

Lancelot swallowed the broth-soaked bread.  It took a couple of tries; even moistened, it wanted to get stuck in his throat.  The grains were thick and it was doughy, and Lancelot wasn’t sure it had been baked through.  “I don’t think they will stop until they find me,” he said, ripping off another piece of the bread.

Red shook his head, a smile playing around the edges of his lips.  “Ah, but that isn’t what I asked at all.  As a knight captain, I presume that you have some experience with how to search for someone who doesn’t wish to be found, and you have some idea of how far we traveled to come here.  Make some reasonable assumptions.  How long do you think it would take for them to find my humble abode?”

Lancelot’s mind raced.  He could feel the slyness in Red’s voice, the hint of a trap laid in his words.  Was there any benefit to Red if Lancelot gave him an honest answer?  Would he reveal anything that he shouldn’t?  It wouldn’t hurt to err on the side of caution.  “Perhaps a week,” he said, carefully.  If Siegfried was fully occupied and Percival had to track them down on his own, it might take that long.  Tracking an airship between islands was a difficult endeavor.  But if he was to give an honest answer, he thought even Percival would be able to find them in three or four days.

“You’ve been my guest for a little more than two days now.  I believe that they would find you in two days or not at all.  By the time we left it was already dawn.  Farmers or herdsmen would have been awake, and several of them should have seen the airship fly by.  This is a different island and a different kingdom, so perhaps there might be some political complications… but that wouldn’t have stopped either of your friends, would it?”

No, neither Percival nor Siegfried would even hesitate in that situation.  Even if political issues arose, either of them could easily cut through them.  He chewed carefully, trying to get the bread broken up small enough that it might go down easier.  It didn’t help.  “I don’t see your point.”

“Precisely.  None of those commonfolk saw anything,” Red said with a condescending smile.

“We weren’t flying high enough for them to miss us,” Lancelot said.  He’d seen the fields below.  Blurred, due to his tiredness, but he’d been able to snatch glimpses of dirt roads and houses.  They had been flying comparatively low.  Even a small airship would have been hard to miss at that height.  And they’d spent nearly an hour over Feendrache Island alone.  Even if the farmer who owned the fields where they’d taken off had been still asleep, someone should have seen them as they traveled.  Small airships were rare.  They would have noticed one passing by.

Red lifted a hand and gestured around the room.  “Then where are we, do you think?”

There weren’t that many islands within a few hours distance of Feendrache, but there were enough that without more information he’d be guessing wildly.  The amusement in Red’s eyes showed that he knew that Lancelot didn’t have an answer for him and was simply trying to jerk him along.  “I don’t think that matters much to me right now,” he said roughly.

“The captain of the knights, and you don’t know the surrounding terrain enough to figure out where you are after a short airship flight?  Tsk tsk.”

Explanations clamored over themselves.  He’d been tired and worried for Vane’s safety.  It had been difficult to see out of the windows when he had been tied down to the seat.  And he knew that none of these were the reason for Red’s confidence.  His frustration boiled over.  “Stop playing with words and make your point.”

Red sighed theatrically and uncrossed his legs, sitting up and brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear.  His brown eyes were intent.  “I wanted you to figure it out for yourself, but if you insist on demanding the answer…”  He extended a hand.  The air around it twisted strangely, and then the hand itself disappeared.  A moment later it blinked back into existence.  “I have some small gift for hiding things which I wish to not be seen.  Larger scale illusions affect those within as well as without, for it is impossible to compensate fully for the visual and mental distortions when expending a great deal of power.  This is the source of your confusion upon our arrival: you didn’t recognize the terrain we passed over because you only got glimpses of detail through the edges of the illusion.  I trust I needn’t explain the rest.”

The explanation hit him like a physical blow.  It took a few moments to integrate it into his view of the world.  If the airship had been invisible the entire time, then it would be far more difficult to track.  That assumed that the knights would even conclude that he had been taken by airship.  And while Lancelot knew that Vane had been delivered here before Red had come to capture Lancelot, Percival and Siegfried didn’t know that.  The note implied it, but it hadn’t been specific; Red could have had Vane in hand nearby, waiting for Lancelot to join them before leaving.  There was nothing to confine the older knights’ search to a limited area.  Lancelot and Vane could still be on Feendrache’s island… or at the far end of the skydom.

No.  As his fears rose, he forced himself to concentrate.  It would be easy to be too pessimistic.  Siegfried could work miracles.  What he had done during the conflict with Percival’s brother had been nearly impossible.  Realizing that Wales had been the cause of Damore raising their armies against Feendrache, and then defusing the magic circles on his way back… his intuition was preternatural.  But would it be good enough to find them?  Lancelot’s mind ran through the clues he might have: the footsteps in the clearing, what Vane had said about an evening visitor, and Lancelot’s own disappearance.  Lancelot wasn’t certain whether he himself would be capable of coming to the correct conclusion from those clues.  But could Siegfried and Percival?

“Your mentor is otherwise occupied as well,” Red said, tracing Lancelot’s thoughts with disturbing clarity.  As Lancelot looked at him, suspicion rising that Red had pulled some trick on Siegfried, Red smiled.  “I can’t say that with certainty, I suppose.  A matter which I had nothing to do with caught his attention, and he dutifully scurried off to resolve it, as is his wont.  It seemed like it would be a thorny problem, which is why I chose now to extend my invitation.  I believe he will be difficult to contact until he brings that situation to a satisfying resolution.”

If not Siegfried… Percival, then.  Percival and the knights.  And perhaps the Grancypher, if they could be found quickly.  But with all the factors stacked against finding them… how long had Red been watching them?  Observing?  Planning this out in detail?  His chest felt tight, the weight on his shoulders suddenly a hundred times heavier.  Red could be lying… he could be lying… but…

_It_ _’s too dangerous; I have to behave as if a rescue isn’t coming.  That it isn’t a possibility.  Either Vane and I get ourselves out, or we aren’t getting out at all._  

It felt like he was trembling, though his hand on the loaf of bread showed no sign of it.  He had at least that much control.  While he hadn’t assumed that they would be rescued, while he had continued to construct plans and look for opportunities, simple endurance had begun to seem a high enough hurdle.  Red knew what hurt him far too well, and the penalty for failure was too high.  But… if he had no other option…

He drew in a slow breath, and a strange sort of clarity descended over him.  He picked up the bread and began eating with a single-minded intensity.

“No argument?  No staunch assertions that you believe in your friends despite all odds?”

Lancelot didn’t dignify Red’s baiting questions with a response.

“Interesting,” Red said, his voice quiet and holding a hint of dissatisfaction.  “You understand that this changes very little of your situation, don’t you?  If you act against me, the consequences will fall on your friend.”  After a brief pause, when Lancelot didn’t respond, he pressed, “Do you understand?”

A hint of malice tainted the edges of his voice.  It was a threat.  Lancelot swallowed the last piece of bread and replied, “I understand.”  But in the empty space that was his mind, it was a rote response.  He’d never forgotten.  He simply couldn’t afford for it to matter any longer.

There were no utensils, but there was still soup in the bowl.  He brought the rim of the bowl to his lips and drank it down.  He didn’t rush; he took his time.  Red had encouraged him to eat, after all.  The food he had been provided was light enough that it shouldn’t trouble his stomach.  He’d need all the energy he could get.  After draining the last drops of the watery soup, he set the bowl back down on the tray and finally returned his attention to Red.

Red looked outright put out, his thin eyebrows knit together and his mouth twisted in an angry line, and Lancelot suddenly realized he wasn’t sure whether Red would retaliate purely out of spite.  If Lancelot did nothing which directly broke the rules, simply refused to play along, drawing as much leeway as he could out of Red’s orders, would Red eventually snap and take it out on Vane anyway?  The thought shook the peace he’d found in his mind, but he clamped down on that fragile serenity with all of his will, refusing to let it out of his grasp.  He simply didn’t know enough about the man to tell.  But the fact that Red was angry now – the first time Lancelot had ever seen him seriously losing the edge of his control – that might be a good sign, even if Lancelot couldn’t afford to push any further.

He let his gaze dip and said, “Excuse my rudeness.  I simply discovered how hungry I was.”

It came out flat and empty of emotion.  A poor apology.  But it observed the proper form, and for whatever reason, Red seemed to respond to those trivialities.  “It has been two days, I suppose,” Red said, sounding slightly mollified.  He stood and clapped his hands together.  “Well, now that I have satisfied your hunger, I have a bit more entertainment planned for you.”

The term “entertainment” struck a low, dissonant chord in his mind, and as Red moved towards him, Lancelot reflexively stood himself.  He knocked the chair as he twisted, trying to avoid Red getting his back.  It was more instinctual than deliberate, and he didn’t continue the fight when Red grabbed his hand and circled behind him anyway.  He wasn’t going anywhere with his leg still chained.  He glanced at the boy who still stood near the door, watching with what appeared to be practiced disinterest.  There was something deep in his eyes.  A spark of some carefully controlled emotion.  But with nothing more than that, Lancelot couldn’t tell which side he’d be on in a conflict.

Red’s hand closed around Lancelot’s other hand, pulling both behind his back and holding them together at the base of Lancelot’s spine.  Lancelot tensed, expecting the feel of steel around his already abused wrists, but Red simply held him still.

“Take the chain off, boy,” Red said.

As the boy came over, Lancelot breathed out and tried to ignore Red’s presence behind him.  This could be another chance to grasp the lock’s key.  But his concentration wavered as one of Red’s thumbs crept through a gap in his sleeve and stroked the back of his wrist, tracing the lines left there from when he had been suspended.  He sucked in a breath and smelled a faint but cloying sweetness, even the hint of it dizzying.  Red’s knee nudged the back of his leg, and he remembered the feel of Red’s hand on his thigh, holding him still as the drug sucked his will under.

He didn’t even think before he spoke.  “Don’t touch me,” he spat.

Red’s thumb stopped, but his fingers tightened around Lancelot’s hands, barely short of crushing strength.  Lancelot’s bones ached under the pressure.  “Are you sure?  You responded so well to me yesterday.”

“I’m not under the effects of your drugs,” Lancelot snapped.

“That was nothing more than a little humble assistance in revealing your true self.  Now that I’ve grasped it, I find myself even more reluctant to let you go.”  Red leaned back, pulling Lancelot slightly off balance, and he remembered the feel of his feet as they left the floor, his toenails scraping against the stone one last time before he fell up into the sky, helpless.  The sound of a chain rattling brought him back to himself with a start.  He was letting Red distract him.  He shook his head to clear it and managed to catch a glimpse of the boy drawing a complicated symbol on the manacle, leaving a glittering streak as the magic lock reacted.  He wasn’t certain he’d seen the entire thing, but it was a rune… he didn’t need to steal a key.  All he needed to do was remember it.

His nerves were tingling where Red’s thumb had stroked him, and it was hard to tell whether that reaction was real or whether it was simply another persistent memory inflicted on him by the drugs.  He desperately tried to focus on what the boy was doing, worried there might be something more.  It seemed too basic, too easy.

Red leaned in this time, and Lancelot’s arms were trapped between his back and Red’s chest, Red’s long hair tickling his hands.  “Have you ever held a small animal in your hand?  That fluttering struggle… the feeling of their little limbs beating against your fingers, their frantic breaths, the patter of their tiny, swift heartbeat.”

Red’s hands were clamped tightly around Lancelot’s, holding him still as he pulled against Red’s grip.  When had he put so much strength into his arms?  He was trembling with the strain of it.  He couldn’t complete with Red on pure muscle, and he couldn’t tell why he was trying, but his heart pounded against his chest and it was hard to concentrate on anything but the feel of Red so close to him.  The sweet scent was stronger now, filling his nose until all he could smell was the stink of it.

“You’re right.  The drugs aren’t everything.  The thought of pressing you down to the ground and kicking your legs apart, and fucking you right in front of my boy… that has an appeal of its own.  Even better if it were your friend watching.”

Red’s grip tightened to the point that the bones in Lancelot’s hands seemed bent nearly to breaking.  Lancelot pressed his lips together tightly, fighting the urge to cry out.  Red’s sudden rough language was accompanied by a steep descent in the tone of his voice.  Lancelot once again had the sensation that Red was towering over him.  He felt the man’s presence like a beast behind him, filled with malice, impossibly large.  A sharp, tiny motion in the field of his vision caught his attention, and he realized his eyes had unfocused, his mind completely fixed on what Red was doing and saying. The boy still crouched at his feet, now holding the empty manacle.  There was still very little expression in those eyes – unnerving enough on its own – but the boy’s mouth was moving.  “Stop fighting,” he mouthed, the movement of his lips slow and exaggerated.

Impossible.  If he gave way to Red he’d be rolled under.  Only suffering lay down that route.  But he thought… he thought the boy was trying to help.  Against every instinct he had, he made himself stop.  He fell back on his heels, let his back bump against Red’s chest, the impact cushioned by the thick spill of lace.  Stepped down the tension in his muscles, first not pulling as hard, then not pulling at all, then letting even his fingers go limp in Red’s grip.  He winced as Red’s fingers dug in deeper as his resistance eased.  He closed his eyes; he had to focus.  it was hard to concentrate on offering no defense when the alternative seemed so repulsive.  But after a few heartbeats, Red relaxed just slightly.  The pain in Lancelot’s hands ratcheted slowly down to a level which simply foreshadowed the bruises to come.  Red sighed, a strange sound somewhere between satisfaction and longing that sent chills down Lancelot’s spine.

“I apologize for such an unsightly display,” Red said, his voice once against breezy and light.  As if none of the intervening events had happened at all, Red’s thumb once again stroked the back of Lancelot’s wrist.  Lancelot tensed, but relaxed nearly as quickly.  He’d felt the tiny increase in Red’s grip strength in response to his reaction.  The touch was deliberate, trying to bait him into starting up another wrestling match.

When his attempt to draw another struggle out of Lancelot failed, Red sighed and lightly shoved Lancelot’s lower back with his pinned hands.  “Shall we proceed?  I’m sure the boy is just as eager as I am.”

Lancelot glanced down, wondering what Red meant, but the boy refused to look at him this time.  Instead he scuttled to the door and opened it, holding it for Lancelot and Red to pass through before following them out into the corridor outside.


	11. Chapter 11

Red had transferred his grip to Lancelot’s wrists, but he simply held them in place behind Lancelot’s back, one in each hand, as he propelled Lancelot down the corridors after the boy.  They didn’t travel far, to Lancelot’s disappointment. More information on the cave complex could only help his situation.  But they had barely turned a corner before the boy, running ahead of them, opened another one of the wooden doors which lined the stone walls.  He held it open as Lancelot and Red approached, his gaze fixed on the floor as he waited for them to enter first.  It didn’t look like the door had been locked, so as they passed through into the room beyond, Lancelot was surprised to find it looked like an odd sort of prison cell.  The room was divided into two unequal parts, separated by floor to ceiling iron bars with a rectangular door in the center, the door nothing more than a metal frame around the same bars, fixed to one bar on the left with a set of crude hinges, a hasp on the other side.  The cell door hung wide open.  The cell itself was empty, devoid of a pallet or a chamber pot or any sort of restraints, and it was large, larger on its own than the room he had been confined in so far.

Lancelot’s first confused thought was that his trick with the bookcase had caused Red to bring him here as some sort of punishment, but if Red wanted Lancelot to suffer, being chained back up in the corner of the original room would be far worse than just being held in a large, featureless cell.  And the boy hadn’t hesitated when Red had indicated they were leaving; he’d run ahead to this room specifically.  That meant that Red had planned to bring Lancelot here even before he’d entered the room and found the bookcase moved and the chair broken, so this wasn’t intended as punishment, which meant… what?  There had to be a purpose to bringing him here, and Red had hinted it had to do with the boy.

Red pulled Lancelot to the side, still holding Lancelot’s wrists tightly in the small of his back, and the boy walked past them into the inner cell.  As Red pushed Lancelot towards the open cell door, a wicker box in the corner caught Lancelot’s attention.  The box had no top, and Lancelot could see that it was full of wooden training weapons.

No, he didn’t like this at all.

With a heavy shove, Red sent him into the cell, and the door shut behind him with the screech of poorly maintained metal.  Lancelot moved away from the bars, but stayed well away from the boy.  His instincts told him the boy was a fellow prisoner, and he’d offered help during Red’s… odd fit… but it was still prudent to be wary.  The boy stood in the center of the open space, shaking out his arms and tilting his head from one side to the other, mimicking the motions of stretching without any apparent understanding of the underlying purpose of the moves.  Satisfied he wasn’t going to be jumped immediately, Lancelot directed his attention to Red, who stood on the other side of the cell door with his arms crossed.

“Since you appear to be so bored with your room, I thought you might enjoy a chance to get a little exercise.  Five will partner with you, if you would oblige him with a bit of sparring,” Red said, indicating the boy with a flick of his fingers.

The boy – Five?  What kind of name was that? – didn’t have the muscle tone of a fighter.  Sparring with him would be too one-sided, and accidents could happen even with practice weapons.  He suspected that Red would try to force his hand by threatening Vane, but Lancelot wasn’t going to hurt a child even if Vane’s safety was on the line.  Vane wouldn’t want that either.  He crossed his arms as well.  “I won’t fight him,” Lancelot replied.

Red flashed him a brief smile, white teeth bright in the light from the lamp above.  “Oh.  Well, that is a pity.  I’m certain you will be glad to know that I wouldn’t think of wagering your friend’s well-being on a trifle like this.”

The slight emphasis on ‘your friend’ caught Lancelot’s attention.  His wariness came out in his voice as he said, “Then you might as well let us out.”

“However, I’m also certain Five will be disappointed to hear that he couldn’t catch your fancy,” Red said, looking past Lancelot to where Five stood.  “If he is unable to provide even a little entertainment for my guests, then I believe he might have outlived his usefulness as a member of my household.  Come here, boy.”  Red gestured curtly with his hand, inviting Five closer.

A chill went down Lancelot’s spine as he glanced between Red and Five.  A threat like that had to bring out some emotion, but Five showed nothing as he started towards the bars, his empty gaze fixed on Red.

This had to be some sort of trick.  Even if Five was a prisoner like Lancelot, Red wouldn’t simply kill him.  The boy followed his orders, did tasks for him… it would be irrational.  There was no point to it.  But as the boy approached the bars, Lancelot met Red’s gaze and saw the cruel spark in them.  If he didn’t intervene, Red would kill Five.  He would kill him just because of Lancelot’s defiance.

Lancelot strode forward and shoved Five back with a hand, interposing himself between the boy and the cell bars.  Knowing that Red had intended them to fight, the thought of Five at his back made him uncomfortable, but he couldn’t afford to take his attention off of their captor. “You’d kill him just because I refused to spar with him?”

“Stay there, Five,” Red ordered.  He tilted his head, his eyes shining and intent as he studied Lancelot.  His lips twitched as if fighting back a smile.  “What is this?  Have you reconsidered?”

The cell seemed so small and tight suddenly, with Five at Lancelot’s back.  In stepping forward he’d taken responsibility for Five and revealed his hand: Vane wasn’t the only person whose safety he could be threatened with.  But he couldn’t simply abandon an innocent, and Red had to have known that before he’d crafted this situation.  This was just another application of leverage.  Another chain wrapped tight around his body, heavy, unwieldy, designed to drag him to his knees.  He just had to fight harder to remain standing.  He knew Red likely wouldn’t let him refuse, but he had to at least make an attempt.  “I don’t want to spar with him.  Find something else.”

Red leaned against the bars, his thin fingers wrapped around the iron, his thumb absently stroking the metal up and down as he stared into Lancelot’s eyes, measuring.  The leisurely motion was distracting, disturbing, pulling Lancelot’s gaze to it even as he tried to keep his eyes on Red.  “If you insist.  I do have others.  Perhaps one of them would be more interesting to you.”

Others?  How many more?  Lancelot glanced back at Five, his mind racing.  If he needed to rescue a horde of teenagers in the same condition as Five, then he would have to abandon his plan to simply locate Vane, break him out, and leave.  They could have returned later with the knights to finish Red off.  But now, knowing of Five and these nebulous others, he’d have to find them as well, however many there were.  Gather them up.  And with how Five had behaved so far, Lancelot couldn’t be sure Red’s other captives would come quietly.  But he couldn’t simply leave them here.

As the complexity of the operation increased, he had to assume Red would realize what was going on before they could escape.  They would have to fight Red directly.  Lancelot’s chances would be better with Vane alongside him, and knowing that Red could weave illusions gave Lancelot an explanation for the peculiar cadence of the fight with Red in the clearing.  But even with that knowledge, he wasn’t certain he could counter Red’s magic.  If he had his weapons, it would give him some tactical alternatives… but for all he knew they were still sitting in the corner of the airship cabin, and that might even be considered the best case.  If Red had hidden Lancelot’s swords somewhere in the complex, he might not be able to find them at all.

“Should I go fetch the next one?” Red asked, interrupting his thoughts, then abruptly chuckled.  “No, it’s gauche to move on to the next entertainment without properly cleaning up after oneself first.  Come here, Five.  If he tries to stop you, perhaps we’ll get a fight after all.”

Lancelot threw his arm out, and Five simply ran into it as if he couldn’t even see it in his path.  The boy hesitated for a moment as Lancelot watched, then turned to him slowly, gaze traveling down Lancelot’s arm as if trying to find the source of the obstacle.  His gray eyes were glassy, but Lancelot could see the boy’s jaw was trembling with the force of his clenched teeth.  Five lifted his hands, balling them into fists like a boxer.

This was nothing but a farce, Lancelot thought with a frustrated edge.  If he fought with Five now he’d be basically giving in to Red’s demand, only without any sort of promise of the boy’s safety at the end of it.  Five threw a clumsy punch in his direction, but as soon as Lancelot took a step back to avoid it, the boy took a sideways step towards the bars and closer to Red.  His hands were still up before him as if ready to fight, but it was clear that his priority was obeying Red’s command to come.

The only way to stop this was to do what Red wanted.  The frustration spilled out in Lancelot’s voice as he spat, “Stop this.  I’ll spar with him.”

Red’s eyes narrowed in pleasure.  “Of course.  Relax, Five.”  As Five lowered his hands, Red went over to the box and fished out three swords, two short, one long.  Red gestured Five closer and handed the weapons through the bars to him.  Five took them and brought them over to Lancelot, staring at the twin swords for a moment before handing them over one at a time, leaving himself with an orthodox long sword.

Lancelot hefted the weapons carefully.  They were balanced quite well, and the weight was similar to his own blades.  Red had those, of course, and could have had a set made to match them, but the weapons in his hands looked as if they had been made several months ago and had already seen some use.  The feel of them was just slightly off. They might be well-balanced, but in the scope of things they were merely very attractive, very functional clubs.  Likely useless against Red.

Five took several steps away and turned to face Lancelot, the sword hanging limply from his lowered hands.  Lancelot studied the boy with the practiced eye of an instructor, finding nothing to counter his earlier assessment that Five had little combat skill.  The tip of the wooden sword hovered barely an inch from the stone floor.  No teacher would ever let a student hold a weapon that way.  The boy’s stance was wrong, too.  His muscles were tense and ready, but if Lancelot aimed a kick to the boy’s legs he suspected Five would topple easily, unable to maintain his balance.  Lancelot breathed out slowly and settled into his own fighting stance, his swords raised and ready.  He had to remain focused.  Five’s apparent lack of skill could be a false front to put him off guard.

“Ah, rules,” Red said suddenly.  Lancelot gave Red a shred of his attention, though his gaze remained fixed on Five.  “Why don’t you fight until one of you is unable to continue?  A true opportunity to test your skills against each other.  I trust you won’t hold back, Lancelot.”

Lancelot tensed.  If his measure of Five was correct, Red might as well be suggesting he beat the boy into submission.  It was repellent.  There was nothing to be learned, nothing to be gained—

“Start,” Red said, and Five launched himself forward.

The boy was only marginally better than Lancelot had feared.  Five had grasped the basics of how to control his weapon, and he had the instincts to parry and dodge.  But his follow through was abysmal, and he fell for the slightest of feints, wildly swinging his sword to bash off oncoming attacks.  It was clear he had never used anything but a training weapon.  When Lancelot lowered his swords to give the boy an opening, he attacked with a single-minded determination, recklessly driving into Lancelot’s space without a care for how vulnerable it made him to Lancelot’s shorter blades.  Lancelot focused on defense, patiently studying Five’s movements.  When he felt he understood them, he deftly parried the next wide swing and twisted his swords, ripping Five’s weapon out of his hands and throwing the wooden long sword several feet away.

Five seemed struck dumb by the loss of his weapon, staring blankly at his empty hands for a moment, then up at Lancelot.  Lancelot stepped back, giving the boy the opportunity to pick up his sword.

As Five went to retrieve his weapon, Red commented, “Do you think it will soothe his pride, that you humiliate him instead of delivering the finishing blow?”

“I told you, I don’t want to do this.”  He certainly wasn’t going to beat a child senseless when he didn’t even have a weapon in his hands.  The question was what he could do to satisfy Red’s demand that they fight until one couldn’t continue, while hurting Five as little as possible.  If he disarmed the boy enough times, Five’s hands would lose their grip strength and the fight would be over, but he doubted that would be enough for Red to declare a winner.  He’d have to knock Five out somehow.

Five had his weapon back.  He stood there for a moment, staring down the dull edge of the blade as he held it just as he had before, the tip almost grazing the stone.  Then, suddenly, he whipped it up and turned toward Lancelot like a puppet whose strings had been yanked by an unskilled puppeteer.  Lancelot retreated back into a defensive stance as Five attacked him blindly with a flurry of wild blows.  Perhaps the ease with which Lancelot had disarmed him had struck a nerve, or maybe he just thought that raw aggression would bring better results.  His face showed such little expression that it was hard to tell what he was thinking.  But it didn’t change Lancelot’s response.  He parried, waited, then struck.  The sword went flying again.  Lancelot followed up with a hard slap to the leg with the side of one of his training blades.  Five fell to one knee.  Lancelot dropped his weapons and lunged forward, planning to grapple… and Five threw him.

It was an unexpectedly technical move, and it caught Lancelot entirely off-guard.  He landed on his back, wheezing as the wind went out of him.  Before he even grasped what had happened, Five was on top of him, his fingers going for Lancelot’s eyes.  Lancelot grabbed the boy’s arms and pulled hard, lowering the crown of his head as Five’s face came forward.  It hurt, but he heard a wet gasp of pain and a crunch.  Internally, Lancelot flinched, but he didn’t hesitate.  He rolled, taking Five with him, until the boy was prone underneath him and Lancelot knelt over his thin waist, grip still tight around the boy’s arms. 

Five’s nose, lips and cheeks were covered with blood… and he was limp.  His nose was bent, obviously broken.

Terrified, Lancelot reached out and placed a hand near the boy’s mouth.  A faint tickle against his skin let him know the boy was still breathing, but Five didn’t twitch when Lancelot patted his cheek.  He was out cold.  Lancelot slid off of him, then carefully turned Five up onto his side.  Left on his back, the blood might drain down his throat.  Lancelot stared at the boy’s lifeless expression, hoping that his eyelids might flutter open, but there was no sign that he was going to recover.  Horror and guilt were a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.  Five had caught him off-guard, but that was no excuse; Lancelot was the better fighter, and he should have been able to control himself.

Dry clapping filled the room as Lancelot stared down at Five.  “The beginning was uninteresting, but the climax more than made up for the dull start,” Red said.

Anger burned in Lancelot’s chest, and disgust that he’d satisfied Red’s desire for blood sport.  It took him a few moments before he could respond.  “He needs treatment,” he said, finally, thinking back to when he’d said the same about Vane.

“Were you satisfied with his performance?” Red asked leisurely.

The implication oozed from the edges of the question.  Five wasn’t off the hook yet.  Lancelot looked up at Red, who was once again leaning against the bars, and was unable to hide the hatred he felt in that moment.  “He fought well.”  For an untrained child.

“Then I suppose he lives another day,” Red said, off-handedly.  “I’ll summon one of the others to take care of him, after you’re safely back in your room.  Come here.  Turn your back to me and put your hands through the bars.”  He held up a pair of manacles which seemed to have appeared from nowhere, shaking them so the chain between the bracelets rattled.  “I suddenly find that I don’t trust you to behave with the proper decorum.”

What he wanted more than anything else in that instant was to put a sword through Red’s throat.  But after a brief look down at Five, he did as he was told.  Every moment he hesitated was an excuse for Red to delay the boy’s treatment.  Red was more careful than usual, winding the chain around his hand tightly after the bracelets were secure around Lancelot’s wrists, pulling his body nearly flat against the bars while he opened the door, before finally letting him free.

As he emerged from the cell, Lancelot turned to Red and asked, “How many of them are there?”

Red laid a finger against the side of his cheek, thinking.  “Excellent question.  I sometimes struggle to remember the precise count.  Sometimes one of them dies, and if I’m inclined, I go fetch a replacement or two, or three.”  He shrugged, then grabbed Lancelot’s arm, propelling him toward the door as he continued.  “It’s quite difficult to strike a balance between malleability and usefulness.  Too old and they’re rebellious.  Too young, and they just fall to pieces.  It took me quite a few tries before I determined what made the perfect choice.  I rarely fail these days.”  He leaned in slightly, whispering in Lancelot’s ear as if he was sharing a secret with a friend, a faint chuckle underneath the words.  “You don’t really think I’m going to give you an exact number, do you?”

It had been worth a try, at least, though the answer he’d gotten had left Lancelot even angrier than before.  Red had avoided giving him anything useful, but it sounded like there were probably several children like Five in the complex.  Lancelot had no idea how to find out how many there were or where they were kept… perhaps his only option was to keep his eyes and ears open, and ask the same question again in the hope that Red eventually slipped.  He glanced over his shoulder one last time as they left the room, Five still lying limp on the floor in the center of the open cell, a small pool of blood accumulating under his broken nose.


	12. Chapter 12

As they passed through the door to the original cell, Lancelot began to turn towards the table, where the manacle still lay on the floor, expecting Red would return him to the same state as he’d been in before they left.  Instead, Red jerked Lancelot backwards by the chain between his wrists and slid his other arm across Lancelot’s throat, pulling his back tight against Red’s chest.  There was enough space to breathe, but the pressure of Red’s arm against his windpipe was a reminder that the man could suffocate him in a moment.  His pulse beat wildly against Red’s arm, and before he could stop himself, he jerked hard against the manacles, instinctively trying to fight free.

Red’s breath was hot against his ear as he said languidly, “You’ve presented me with quite the conundrum.  Open defiance in the beginning, but a satisfying conclusion.  However, on the balance, I believe you require a bit of correction.”

His heart sped up further.  “You said you weren’t going to touch Vane.  Or Five.”

“And I won’t,” Red said, a hint of affront in his tone, barely masking the undercurrent of amusement.  “You, however… you seem desperate to stir my interest.”  The hand tangled in the chain dropped lower, and Lancelot gasped as the manacles dug deep into his wrists, sending a jolt of pain up his arms as his elbows were stretched to their full extension.  “Perhaps that’s what drew my attention to you in the first place.  Or perhaps it was simply how well chains suited you.”

Red shifted his weight, jerking Lancelot around to face the chains in the corner.  Lancelot’s breath caught in his throat, and his heart beat a frantic rhythm against the inside of his ribcage.  For a second, he could feel fingernails digging into his arm.  He shook his head, trying to drive away the images, the distant croon of Isabella dragging out his name.  This wasn’t that.  No matter what happened to him, he wasn’t back there.

“Are you going to scream again for me?”  A short shove against Lancelot’s lower back forced him forward a step.  The darkened corner filled his vision, the chains shimmering in the reflected light from the well-lit space behind them.  It was almost as if they were moving, twisting in anticipation.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lancelot replied.  Was that his voice?  It was breathy and higher than usual.  He couldn’t seem to breathe entirely right.  His head was swimming.  Red’s choke hold must be cutting off his air after all.  As Red shoved him forward again, he stumbled and nearly fell, his knees suddenly weak.

Red’s hand twisted in the chains, pulling them tighter, and the arm around Lancelot’s throat kept him on his feet and moving forward.  The man’s strength simply didn’t yield.  It felt like if he planted his legs that Red would simply push until they broke.  Red didn’t even seem like he was exerting himself as he laughed and said, “You seemed to be quite in distress last time.  Please forgive my concern if you find it overbearing.”

If it was just the chains, if it was just the nightmares, the memories, he could endure that.  Isabella couldn’t hurt him anymore.  Her whispers meant nothing.  She’d never touch him again.  If he just kept that in mind… no matter how real it felt…

As they reached the corner, Red let go of his throat and shoved him down to the ground, hard.  His knees buckled underneath him, followed by a shot of pain as they cracked into the stone floor, but Red was still holding the chain connecting his wrists, forcing him to let his upper body fall forward so his arms wouldn’t break.  He panted, remembering the feel of his fellow knights’ hands on him, holding him still at Gareth’s orders while Isabella chained him up.  He shook his head, once, twice.  No.  He’d been through this before.  Even at Red’s hands.  Even if he couldn’t remember it clearly.  He could survive all of this.

“Relax for me, won’t you, Lancelot?”  Red crouched next to him, laying a hand on the back of Lancelot’s head, though he kept the hand holding the manacle chain high enough to make it awkward for Lancelot to fight.   “The longer you extend this little game, the worse the boy’s chances are.  Or are you reconsidering your decision to save him?”

Five.  Five was still waiting for treatment.  Red wouldn’t send any until he was finished.  Lancelot shuddered as Red’s fingers dug into his scalp and pushed, forcing his head down to the ground.

He could fight.  He could still fight.  But he knew what this looked like from outside, remembered Red’s pale hand against Vane’s blond hair, and the screaming, the blood, the terrible blistering of the skin.  Consequences.  He groaned as he let Red press him down until his forehead rested against the stone.  When the hand lifted, he stayed as he was.  Red finally released his grip on the chain and let Lancelot’s hands fall, and he winced at the pain in his shoulders as he curled his hands in the small of his back.

Lancelot offered no resistance as Red chained him up once more.  The effort of holding back had exhausted him.  Even there the torment didn’t end.  Red cinched the chains, leaving his arms stretched wide with the bracelets digging into the base of his palms.  He couldn’t lay a finger on the hasps.  Though he knew it was just his memories of what it would feel like after hours of this, his shoulders had already begun to pulse with a dull ache.  Perhaps some of the pain still lingered from being suspended by his arms the day before.  He couldn’t tell.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes.  He needed to be ready, ready to endure the nightmares to come.

Red suddenly grabbed his chin, startling his eyes back open.  The flecks in Red’s brown eyes glittered.  “Surely you didn’t think just being chained up was the entirety of your chastisement, did you?”

The momentary calm he had grasped was shattered.  Red pulled out a small vial filled with a sky blue liquid, waving it leisurely in front of Lancelot’s face.  “Open your mouth for me and tilt your head back.”

Lancelot pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head.  He knew it was futile.  Red would wrestle his mouth open, likely even break his jaw if that was what was necessary to get Lancelot to drink… whatever it was.  No… he didn’t want Lancelot damaged, so he would threaten Vane instead.  But he’d already been a victim of Red’s drugs once before, and he didn’t want to go through that again.

Red tapped his shut lips with a finger.  “If you refuse, I’ll simply employ an alternative.  You didn’t particularly enjoy that experience, I think.  And certainly it would be awkward given your current position.  But I can be inventive, and persistent.”

Lancelot shivered, remembering the wrongness of it and the feel of Red’s fingers inside of him.  It sparked a brief hint of pain; he still hadn’t healed.  He let out a long breath through his nose, but when Red seemed about to stand, Lancelot shut his eyes, tilted his head back and opened his mouth.

The liquid which Red poured in was bitterly tart, and it seemed to cling to his tongue.  There wasn’t much of it, and as soon as the flow stopped he shut his mouth.  He didn’t swallow immediately.  Red reached up and stroked his hair.

“You need to learn that the easiest path is simply to obey me.  What use is resistance if you’re unable to follow through?  Swallow for me, Lancelot.  The alternative is still an option.”

His throat had simply closed.  Knowing what the drugs could do to him made his body reject them.  Red lightly rubbed the side of his throat.  The liquid in Lancelot’s mouth had begun to burn.  His eyes watered, and he shook his head.  He tried once to swallow, and failed.  Tried again, and failed.  Finally he managed to force it down.  His throat ached with the effort, the conflicting desire to spit it out and the overriding command to swallow anyways.

Lancelot gasped, the air in his mouth frighteningly cold as it passed over the back of his tongue.  It felt like the drugs were cutting a path down his chest towards his stomach.  He didn’t feel any different yet.  It had worked much faster before.  Was this drug different?  Or was it just behaving differently this time?

“Well done,” Red said with a gentle smile, nothing more than a fake to hide his satisfaction.  “It will take a few minutes to work.  I assume you’d still like me to get treatment for the boy.”

“Help him,” Lancelot said, his voice rough.  Red considered him for a moment, perhaps trying to decide whether to needle Lancelot further, but then he stood and walked out.  The door hung open, tantalizing.  The chains rattled as Lancelot pulled at them despite himself.  He had no real expectation that they would magically come undone.  Nor did they.  All he could do was wait.

Warmth crept through his body, and on the heels of that, lassitude.  The sensation was unpleasant and familiar.  It was the same drug, then, just administered differently.  Before long he was dangling from the chains, all of his weight on his shoulders.  The cuffs had to be biting into his wrists, too, but he couldn’t feel anything beyond the raw sense of pressure against the base of his palms.  It would make more sense to sit up straight, try to ease the strain on his arms.  He didn’t feel it yet, but it was inevitable the pain would build.  But when he tried to put thought into action, it took several long seconds before his body obeyed, and his motions were sluggish and uncoordinated.  He’d been just as helpless before, when Red had been pushing, probing, stroking…

Dread filled him, and fear.  His skin crawled as the memories lapped at the edge of his mind, calling forth the sensations he’d felt just the day before.  He shook his head, that too far slower than it should be.  Plans.  He should plan.  How to get Vane out.  How to save the children.  How to get back to Feendrache safely.  Anything but how what Red had done to him had felt, his thumbs stroking slowly up the insides of Lancelot’s thighs.  The feeling of his cock, hard in Red’s hand.

His breathing quickened.  The morass of memories gripped his mind, pulling him deeper no matter how much he struggled.  It was almost a relief when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.  They chased away the distant sound of Isabella calling his name.

Red knelt beside Lancelot, running a hand through his hair.  On the second stroke, he tightened his grip and pulled Lancelot’s head up so their gazes met.  His smile widened, almost unnaturally.  “Were you anticipating my return?”

“Don’t… be… ridiculous.”  Every word was an effort.  He let out a slow, controlled breath.  His neck relaxed as he yielded to Red’s grip and his chin dipped slightly, but it let him concentrate on speaking.  “Is Five… all right?”

“Ever the diligent knight.  He’s fine.”

Red summoned a crystal into his free hand.  It quickly disappeared into his pouch, but Lancelot caught a glimpse of his own face, his lips parted and pupils wide.

“I’ve developed quite a collection of memories now,” Red said, slowly letting Lancelot’s head down and then releasing his hair.  He traced Lancelot’s cheek with the tip of a finger, over his chin and into the hollow of his throat, the side of his thumb pressed against Lancelot’s jaw.  “I can only claim you once.  I want to be certain that I can remember every second of it, every defiance, every submission.”

Lancelot sucked in a breath as Red’s finger dipped below his collarbone, right to the edge of what the fabric would permit.  Red leaned in and unbuttoned the front of Lancelot’s shirt, brushing the cloth to either side as he went so Lancelot’s chest and stomach were exposed to the air.  A slight tremble began in Lancelot’s fingers, and he reflexively clenched his hands into loose fists.  His muscles still barely obeyed him.  A loose fist was all he could manage, and even then his fingers twitched, trying to return to a neutral position.

Red moved up to Lancelot’s shoulders, undoing the buttons down his arms.  As he traveled down each arm, the cloth fell free as he let it loose from the fastenings.  It caressed Lancelot’s skin as it fell.  He felt the tightness building, felt his cock fighting against the pants that contained it.  His breathing had deepened and quickened, and there was an edge to it now, somewhere between a moan and a whine.  He focused, closed his mouth, trying to hold the sound in.  His lips trembled, and his hands had gone limp now that he was no longer putting all his attention on them.

“You knew this was inevitable, didn’t you?  Did you envision this when you pulled the clothing on the table?  Imagine me taking it off of you while you put it on?”  Red’s chuckle was low and throaty.

“Stop talking,” Lancelot gasped.  Anything to distract himself from the sensation of Red’s fingers on him.  Knowing what was to come made it worse. 

“Would you prefer for me to hurry?”  Red untied the laces of his trousers, working the string out hole by hole.  It was a welcome bit of pain as the hard ends of the laces dragged across his skin.  The very unpleasantness was pleasant in comparison.  But all too soon Red had undone the laces down to his knees, and the pain slipped free of his grasp.  Red’s hands were almost gentle as he pulled Lancelot’s knees apart and fished the cloth out from between his legs, letting it fall and leaving Lancelot exposed.

“Don’t… ah!” 

Red’s hand cupped his balls, his thumb stroking the base of Lancelot’s cock.  He craned his head and stared up into Lancelot’s eyes, teasing, excited.  “Did I startle you?  It seems like our last session left you wanting more.”

“Don’t touch me!”  He was burning up.  He tried to shut his legs, but when his sluggish responses finally produced a twitch, Red’s other hand prevented his knees from fully closing.  Lancelot shuddered as the hand on his balls crept backwards, seeking the hole behind them.  For a moment terror transfixed him, as he remembered the feeling of the drugs being forced inside of him, and the sharp pain of being torn open.  Even now, it hurt as he tensed.  “Don’t!”

Red traced the rim slowly with a cold fingertip, as if to make a point that he would do whatever he wanted, then pulled his hand away and sat back as Lancelot shuddered, the sensation still lingering like an echo, fading only slowly.  “Does it still hurt?  I told you not to resist, didn’t I?  I was quite careful to warn you.”

“You knew…”  That cursed sound of humming in his ears.  Red had enjoyed it.  Enjoyed every moment of it.  “You knew I couldn’t… stop…”  Even talking about it brought the memories back, fresh and raw.  He needed a distraction.  Anything but remembering what had happened before.  “Why… this?  Why me?”

“An explanation, now?  When you seemed so impatient just a moment ago?”  Red went silent for a moment, but a smile played around the edges of his lips.  “I suppose I can indulge your curiosity, if you find that more stimulating for the moment.  We have all the time in the world.”

Reaching up and pulling a lock of his dark red hair free, Red tangled his fingers in it, rubbing it between his fingers as he spoke.  “We share some common acquaintances, but you were quite cruel to the ones closest to my heart, though all they did was offer a hand of assistance to someone in desperate need.  Hardly something which deserved the treatment they received in return.  You skydwellers can be quite ungrateful.”

_Skydwellers._   The term caught Lancelot’s attention.  As far as he could tell, Red was human.  Something tickled the edge of his mind.

“I suppose you could call it a bit of revenge, perhaps, as sordid a reason as that is.  But beyond that, I found myself enraptured by you in particular.”  Red flashed his teeth as he slowly ran his fingers through the lock of hair until the strands fell free to brush the stone floor.  “Anomalous as it is, I prefer a particular type of challenge in the ones I choose to cultivate, and you offered me the perfect blend of strength and vulnerability.”

“Because… of Isabella?”  It couldn’t have been his own weakness that brought all of this about.  No one had known.  No one but Vane.  He’d fought so hard to keep that part of himself hidden from the knights and from the King.

“And other things.”  Red curled the lock of hair he’d been playing with behind his ear.  “You strive so hard to reach your ideals that you forget to take a moment to stare at yourself in the mirror.  I took the liberty of observing for you.”

Lancelot’s throat closed as Red pushed himself into a crouch and then went down on his knees in front of Lancelot, placing their faces at the same level, so close he could taste the faint sweetness of Red’s breath.  “I won’t be distracted forever,” Red whispered.  His hand snaked around to the back of Lancelot’s neck and he pulled him closer, until Lancelot’s shoulders ached from being pulled against the chains.  Lancelot groaned at the pain surfaced through the drugs, and Red fixed his lips against Lancelot’s, forcing his tongue inside.  Lancelot tried to recoil, but Red’s hand didn’t budge.  He was left with no room to struggle as Red’s tongue explored his mouth.

A thumb teased the side of his neck, tracing the stiff tendons where they pressed against the skin from beneath, and Lancelot shivered.  The sensation shot down his spine and goosebumps rose on his skin.  Red smiled against his lips as his mouth opened just a bit more.  Lancelot pulled his tongue back, trying to avoid Red’s probes, and Red obliged by lightly swiping the roof of his mouth.  It was startlingly sensitive.  He gasped as Red pulled away, laughing.

Lancelot’s entire body was throbbing; this was worse than the last time.  His hair had fallen into his face, and he preferred to leave it that way, even as it tickled his cheeks.  He didn’t want Red to have any more evidence of how this was affecting him.  But Red reached up, brushing his hair behind his ear and stroking his cheek.  “We’re not finished yet,” he said, softly.  “There’s so much more of you left to touch.”

He left Lancelot’s face and his fingers crept up Lancelot’s arm, testing the muscles, tracing the veins.  Lancelot’s muscles flexed, and the manacles dug into the heel of his palm, but it wasn’t enough pain to drive away the lingering feeling of Red’s hands on him.  But when Red grazed Lancelot’s knuckles and traced his fingers, Lancelot couldn’t hide his shiver as the sensation shot right through his arm and to his shoulder.  He cried out, startled.

“Here, hmm?”  Red slowed, slowly running his thumb and index finger along the length of Lancelot’s fingers, back and forth.  Lancelot pressed his upper teeth into his lower lip, but as Red’s fingertips lightly pressed into his knuckle he lost his concentration.  The air tickled the tip of his cock as it bobbed, and he moaned, low and desperate.

If he could simply shut Red out.  Replace him with something else.  Vane’s laughing face, the feel of their shoulders pressed together, the hand on his giving him strength, those gentle fingers cradling the sides of his face…

He opened his eyes, and found Red before him.  It was Red’s hands on his cheeks.

“Are you thinking of your friend again?”  Red leaned forward, their noses brushing.  “I can see it, the way the tension in your face relaxes, the smile which rises to your lips.  But I want you to focus on me, now, Lancelot.”

His heart pounded in his chest as Red circled around him.  When Red drew his fingernails down Lancelot’s back, Lancelot threw his head back and cried out.  The lines from Red’s nails burned, but in the wake of it came another flood of pleasure.  Distantly, he heard humming, barely audible past the sound of his own pulse in his ears.

“How much have you sacrificed already?  A bit of pride?  A few little lies?  All for the sake of your friend.”  Red’s arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him backwards.  The lace of the man’s shirt tickled the scratches left by his nails.  “You nearly killed a child, even though you thought it was the only thing you could do to save his life.  How did it feel, the crown of your head smashing into the bridge of his nose?  That wonderful cracking sound as the cartilage broke?  I think there’s still a bit of blood on your hair.  I didn’t want to mention it before.”

There was nowhere to go, but if he could simply escape that voice.  Red’s hand captured Lancelot’s chin, and the other hand traveled downward, resting on his pelvis.  The man’s body was usually so cold, but his palm felt hot.  With a short sharp gasp, Lancelot tried the only thing he could think of, trying to uncurl his legs and push himself forward.  It wouldn’t get him free of the chains, but at least he wouldn’t be pressed up against Red.  But even as he moved to escape, Red’s hand lifted and grabbed his cock, holding it tight.  Trapped, he fell back to his knees, whimpering as even that little motion dragged his cock through Red’s fingers.

Red pressed against his back, inescapable, as if he was trying to fit himself against every inch of Lancelot’s exposed skin.  He nuzzled the space between Lancelot’s neck and shoulder, murmuring, “I don’t think you can take much more.  So now is the time to offer you a little choice.”

The hand on his cock moved, the thumb rising to gather the liquid at the tip, trailing it down the side as Red spoke.  “I’m going to finish you either way.  But I’ll give you the opportunity to beg me for it, if you’d like.”

“Why would I—” Lancelot began, but was interrupted when Red’s hand clamped down hard and his breath left him.

“If you beg me for it, when you’re finished, I’ll let you down from the chains.  You’ll be able to sleep on the bed, and I’ll have one of my boys prepare you a bath.  However, if you don’t, you’ll stay where you are overnight.  Exactly as you are, after we’re done.”  Red rocked back slightly, pulling his arms against the chains to make his point.  “You’ve already given up so much.  This is just a little more pride.”  Red loosened his grip slightly, and leisurely stroked the tip of Lancelot’s cock with the pad of his thumb.  His tone was distant and amused as he asked, “So, are you going to beg for me?”

Each stroke sent a jolt through him, scattering his thoughts to the wind.  The cadence of his breath, slight as it was, made him move against Red’s hand.  His entire body was quivering with tension, strung too tight.  He had never been so aware of his own need. 

That part was inevitable.  Red would do what he liked.  Lancelot’s only choice was whether to bend further.

Pride… but he couldn’t do anything like this.  He couldn’t feel the pain now, but with the chains pulled so cruelly tight, hanging here would be agony when the drug haze lifted.  Alone in the dark.  No clothing.  Cold.  And after Red was finished with him…

_Why won’t you give me what I want, Lancelot?_

He shivered.  Red’s chin on his shoulder made a tiny motion, and he could practically feel the man smile, those perfect, white teeth, that condescending, absolute assurance.  The fingers around his shaft lifted one at a time as Red adjusted his grip. 

Isabella would follow him into the dark.  She’d chase him directly into Red’s arms.  He couldn’t… just couldn’t take that.  And it… it made tactical sense.  Just… words.  Words for information.  Words for freedom of movement.  Just… just a few words…

“Please.”  It fell loose from his lips, with barely enough strength behind it to travel.

Lancelot drew in a sharp breath as he felt the change in the air, the change in himself.  He hadn’t even realized the drugs had left him any space to resist, but with that single word, he felt that last bit of stubborn defiance leave him.  His chin dipped, yielding fully to Red’s grip.  He remembered… the leisurely feel of Red touching him, the spark of energy when Red had played with his fingers.  Red’s hair tickling his bare skin, the feel of soft lace against the harsh burn of the scratches on his back.  The touch on his thighs.  Red’s leg entangled with his.  Red’s fingers inside of him.  His breath shook as Red traced a circle on the side of his cock, teasing him further.  He just… needed.  The thought settled into him like a rock into a divot, refusing to move no matter how much he pushed at it.  He needed, and the feeling sucked his mind in, irresistible and inescapable.

“What was that?  I think you’ll have to be a little more specific,” Red said softly, his breath tickling Lancelot’s collarbone.

“More…” Lancelot said, his voice louder than he’d intended.  This was a terrible idea.  It had been a terrible idea.  If he could stop… but his breath was coming in quick bursts.  This was what he needed to do, wasn’t it?  He’d finally… and it was just words.  Just… just words.  “Please!  Faster!”

Red’s hand closed down, and the other hand let Lancelot’s chin fall and reached for his balls, cupping them, rolling them gently over his fingers.  Lancelot let his chin rest on his chest as the sensations crested over him.  Red’s knees were pressed against his hips, holding him in place.  The muscles in his thighs tightened and trembled.

“Spread your knees for me,” Red whispered.

“Don’t… stop…” Lancelot cried out, unable to tell whether he meant the words separately or together.  The meaning was totally different.  But Red’s hands suddenly fit more comfortably between his thighs, and he realized he must have obeyed Red’s command.  He closed his eyes tightly.  Red’s stroking had found a rhythm, and it controlled him.  His responses were governed by what Red’s hands were doing to him.

Panting, words spilled from his lips as he begged, desperate.  He knew the meaning of them, but he tried to pretend he didn’t, even as here and there they lodged in his mind and refused to budge.  _Red.  More.  Tighter.  Please._   That cursed word.  But he couldn’t control his voice.  Red was humming again.  Horrified, Lancelot realized his body was moving.  His arms were taut against the chains, and he’d risen up on his knees, pressing his hips forward into Red’s hand.

“Like that, good,” Red murmured in his ear.  “Show me…”

Every muscle in his body was twisting tighter and tighter.  The need to pull away before he finished was a tiny voice in the back of his mind which had no influence on his actions, and Red’s chest was pressed against his back as the man rose with him, cutting off any escape route.  Lancelot’s spine stung from where the bunched lace on the man’s shirt dug into the scratches, but it hovered on the point between pain and pleasure, lost somewhere in the gap between.  Red delicately toyed with Lancelot’s balls as the thumb on the hand working his shaft pressed tight against the tip.  Shame was crushing him, but he couldn’t stop what was happening.  In the last moment, he reached out for the apex, desperate for it to be over, needing the release.  His muscles locked, and he tipped, and fell…

When he came it was with a sob, and Red’s voice in his ear, satisfied as he said, “Good, Lancelot.  Very good.”


	13. Chapter 13

The rune worked.  After he’d had his bath, one of Red’s teenage captives watching him warily the entire time, the boy’s lips tightly shut and his only response to Lancelot’s questions a shake of the head, he’d been left alone to test it.  He’d closed the manacle back around his ankle afterward with the knowledge that he could open it again at any time.  Yet all he felt was emptiness.  There was no sense of triumph.  He let his back rest against the wall, his legs stretched across the bed, and stared at the ceiling.  It had been flattened, but provided no decoration, left the dark gray of the cave’s stone.  He’d never noticed it before.  Too many things clamoring for his attention.

The one surprise he’d had was that Red had left him a crystal on the table along with a new set of the same clothing.  Lancelot had cradled it in his hand worriedly for several minutes before gazing into it, but the image trapped within was Vane.  His friend’s back was healing fine.  The skin was new and pink and he obviously hadn’t been happy with Red at the time, given that he was glaring as best he could over his shoulder, but he looked fine.  Even the bruises around his eye were healing, though that just left it an ugly yellow-green mess, and the scab from the cut on his lip was already beginning to shrink.  The relief had risen above the fog which clouded the rest of Lancelot’s mind, and he’d held the crystal tightly in his hand even after the image had faded.

But the barrier between them and escape still felt nearly insurmountable.  The rune might work on the door, too.  That would help.  But he still had to find Vane, and round up the other captives, and then make his way out of the complex.  If he could secure his weapons, that would raise his chances.  But that was a risk, too.  Every second he spent searching instead of leaving was a second Red could find them undefended.  Lancelot and Vane could fight… though Lancelot knew he was significantly weakened from his treatment, and while Vane’s back looked healed enough that he should be able to help, there was no guarantee he was getting enough food and water that he’d be in good condition.  Vane would fight, Lancelot thought with a smile, though it had no humor in it, but that didn’t mean he could be effective.

But how much longer could Lancelot afford to wait?

He was staring at the ceiling because it was something to stare at.  An intense focus on one thing, something simple, something he could grasp easily, that kept the thoughts away.  But that question had cracked the wall he had hastily built around the things he couldn’t afford to think about.

The bath hadn’t helped wash away what Red had done.  He could still feel Red’s fingers touching him… all over.  The sensations crept up on him when he least expected them.  Even when he’d been in the water with the wall of the tub pressed against his back, he’d felt a stroke on the back of his neck, then fingers gliding across the edge of his jaw.  It had nearly driven him out of the bath all together.  Only his tired muscles, the warmth of the water, and the desperate need to be clean had kept him where he was.  It hadn’t happened again in the bath, but in the time since the boy had taken the tub and left, he’d had moments where for a second, he thought he could smell that sweet scent, or feel the ghost of a touch underneath his clothes.

He might be losing his mind, he thought, letting his head fall to the side.  Even Isabella hadn’t been this bad.  He still had nightmares and flashbacks, but it hadn’t been… this.  He felt so brittle.  Fragile.  It was hard to think straight, even while he knew it was critical that he keep his wits.  Perhaps it was that he’d had nothing to fear from Isabella after it was over.  Red was an omnipresent threat.  Any second he could come back through the door and…

With a shudder, Lancelot yanked himself out of that thought.  It was followed by a shiver as he realized how cold he felt.  He breathed out slowly, trying to draw himself back together.

How much more could he realistically expect to learn?  He needed that answer, needed to weigh it against how much he would lose while he continued to gather information.  He had to think about the situation carefully… set those questions on the balance scale, assess them rationally.  But as the thought of what could happen the next day began to pile up in his mind, he felt his pulse begin to race and his breath go shallow in his chest.  He wouldn’t get information unless he faced Red.  And Red…

_I can_ _’t face him again,_ Lancelot realized.  It wasn’t just the ‘entertainment’, though the thought of Red’s next escalation made his stomach churn.  It was the constant needling, baiting him for a response which Red would use as a pretext to hurt Vane.  And the nipping at the edge of Lancelot’s principles, forcing him to compromise again and again.  This or that, and the consequences of both were unacceptable.  He could even hear Red’s lilting voice as he thought about it.  All of it together was pushing his back into a corner.  He’d either break or lash out.

Lancelot clenched his hand into a fist to still his trembling fingers.  The idea that he might break was all too plausible.  Five’s empty gaze was a presage of what he might look like in the future.  The memory of the desperate words he’d said, and how his hips rose to meet Red’s hand, how little control he’d had in that moment, things he absolutely could not afford to think about…

In short: he had to move now.

His intention crystallized, he reached down to the manacle and drew the rune.  It unlocked, and he got off the bed, staring at the door.  He had to steel himself to approach it.  Red could come in at any time, and he was obviously unfettered.  But the longer he stood there the more likely it was that someone would come, and the risk was trivial compared to after he got the door open.  If he could.

With quick, quiet steps Lancelot went to it, then carefully pressed his ear against the wood.  Unsurprisingly, he heard nothing.  He could feel the weight of the wood and the iron binding it.  It was well set in the frame.  No noise was going to get past it, so he was effectively deaf.  He’d simply have to risk it.

He stared at the plate for a few moments, then quickly sketched the same rune onto it as he’d used on the manacles.  His heart was pounding so hard he almost didn’t hear the click.  But the door pressed back lightly on the tip of the finger he’d used to draw the rune.  It was open.  It was open!

Carefully, he tugged on the handle.  He didn’t want to open it too far immediately.  There was still a chance that if there was someone in the corridor that they might not realize the door was open and he’d have a chance to shut it and retreat before they caught on.  He peered through the crack… and right into the light blue eyes of a teenage girl.

She stood next to the door, and all she’d turned towards him was her head.  Her eyes were as empty as Five’s.  She was pretty, but it was overshadowed by how thin she was.  Her cheeks were sunken and her brown hair chopped inexpertly short and ragged at the edges.  They stared at each other for several long seconds, Lancelot’s pulse racing as he realized he was caught already.  She must be a guard.  There was no other reason for her to be standing there.  But how should he deal with it?  If he truly meant to rescue Red’s captives, he had to convince her to come with him and abandon Red.  But any second she could turn and run, sounding the alarm.  Would he have to stop her?  Calm her down?

As Lancelot considered what to do, seconds passed and she didn’t move a muscle.  She just stood there, staring at him.  Well, he was caught already, so… he pulled the door open a little further.  “What are you doing there?” he asked, making his voice as gentle as he could.

“He told me to stand here and watch,” the girl replied.

“Watch for me?”

She blinked, slowly.  “Watch,” she repeated, as if she didn’t quite understand the word.

Lancelot considered his options carefully.  She didn’t seem inclined to move, but it was suspicious that Red would just leave her here to ‘watch’, with no orders to do anything beyond that.  However, if he asked her if she was supposed to tell Red about him, she might suddenly decide to go off and do just that.  “What is your name?” he ventured, finally.

“Twenty.”

So there had been twenty of them at one point or another… or Red just assigned numbers randomly.  Lancelot felt his jaw tighten in anger.  Red had said he didn’t like to take them too young, so these children must have had names they knew besides numbers.  That they had forgotten them, or were too afraid to use them even when Red wasn’t about, spoke volumes.  “How many children are there?” he asked, trying not to let his anger show in his voice.  He didn’t want to frighten her.

She stared at him blankly.  After a few seconds while he tried to think of how to rephrase the question, she asked, “Numbers?”

Lancelot swallowed.  He wanted to reject the idea, but… “Yes.  How many numbers are there?  In these caves?”  He hoped that was specific enough that she’d give him the count of the living.  Surely Red didn’t bury the bodies in these caves…

She turned her head forward and looked at the ground, as if deep in thought, then said, “Nine.”

Nine… with Lancelot and Vane, that would make eleven.  Too many for Red’s small airship to carry.  If there was a town on the island then they could try to make for it and find a larger ship willing to take them, if there was one available.  But the island could be uninhabited, and smaller towns might not see airships for weeks or months.  They could be stuck waiting with Red at their back.  That left him two choices: leave with Vane and perhaps one or two of the children, to make for Feendrache and come back for the rest with help later; or try to tackle Red with only himself and Vane.

If the island was uninhabited, then Red would be stuck here if Lancelot took the airship.  But even though Red hadn’t said that the children were hostages for Lancelot’s behavior, and though they were Red’s, obeying his will… it would be foolish to think Red would let them live if Lancelot escaped.   No…  it was possible Red would leave them alone.  After all, what would be the point in killing them if Lancelot left?  If Red was trapped here, knowing that Lancelot would be back with the White Dragon Knights at his back, having the children as hostages would be useful.  But Lancelot couldn’t shake the thought that the man would kill them out of spite.  He’d probably consider it some twisted form of punishment.

And right now, the thought that Red might kill them made Lancelot hesitate, exactly what Red would want.  But in the end, would he follow through?  Or was the threat sufficient?

Well, he was committed now, Lancelot thought with a shake of his head.  Vane came first.  Whether they fought or fled, Vane was necessary.  “Do you know where the… other knight is being kept?  Blond hair?  Big?  Friendly?”

She looked back at him and nodded.  “Watch,” she said.

He couldn’t tell whether she’d even understood him.  “Can you show me?  Take me there?”

She blinked several times, and again stared at the ground.  Then, for the first time, she turned her entire body to face him.  “Watch,” she said, and pointed behind him, down the corridor.

What followed was some uncomfortable jockeying for relative position.  Lancelot needed her to direct him, but she seemed reluctant to take the lead.  Eventually they walked side by side down the hall as she glanced up at him periodically.  It seemed like she thought he might disappear at any moment, or that she took the word ‘watch’ far too literally.   Lancelot’s back tingled, ready for someone to find them at any moment.  It didn’t seem possible that he could get so far so easily.  But if there were only nine children and Red, then perhaps it wasn’t surprising that they’d barely run into each other in the complex.  It was huge.  It took several minutes for Twenty to lead him to the side of another nondescript door.  He never would have found it on his own, not without hours of searching.  Lancelot tested the handle.  When he found it locked, he tried drawing the same rune which had worked on his door… and that didn’t work either.  Desperately, knowing it was useless, he tried the rune again, slower, more carefully.  When it still didn’t work, he slammed his hand against the door in frustration.

If Vane really was behind this door… he was so close.  And Lancelot couldn’t leave without him.  There was no question of whether Vane’s value exceeded Red’s capacity for spite, as there was with the children.  Red had been absolutely clear: if Vane was here and Lancelot was not, then Vane had no further value.

Lancelot’s fingers gouged at the wood, doing little damage to the door, but scraping his fingertips raw.  Even if he went willingly back to his cell now, Twenty would tell Red about his escape attempt.  And Vane would bear the punishment for that, too.  “A pound of flesh, or a token,” Red had said.  Lancelot shuddered, helplessness strangling him.  If he went back now, Red would make sure that he didn’t attempt to escape again.  Vane’s suffering would only be the start.

_What will Vane lose because I wasn_ _’t strong or smart enough?_

A sudden hand on his sleeve made him jerk.  Twenty stared up at him, her fingers twined in the fabric.  Was it just his imagination, or was that concern in her eyes?  Lancelot swallowed and tried to get a hold of himself.  “It’s all right,” he said weakly, patting her hand.  Perhaps having Twenty lead him to the rest of the children… was the best that he could do.  Vane would tell him to prioritize the children.  The thought of abandoning his friend cut him to the bone, but if that was his only option—

Suddenly, a thought came to him.  He grabbed Twenty’s hand.  She recoiled, her eyes going wide with fear, and he let go of her hand just as quickly, putting his hands up to show he bore no ill will.  When she seemed to calm down, he pointed at the door.  “Can you open this door?”

She looked between him and the door several times, then stepped up to it.  Lancelot, watching over her shoulder, saw her draw a different rune on the plate.  It was similar in design and feel to the one used for his room, but he wouldn’t have been able to figure it out without her.  With a glance over her shoulder, she pulled on the door enough to leave a small gap and stepped out of his way.  The room beyond was dim; not dark, but with the lights muted.  Lancelot pulled the door all the way open hesitantly.  “Vane?”

The room was much smaller than his was, and closer to a cell than a room.  There was no bed, only a pallet.  A copper pitcher sat on the stone floor next to an empty wooden plate, and there was a chamber pot in the corner.  And chains, stretching down from the wall to where Vane sat propped against it, still shirtless, looking up sleepily towards the door.  But when he saw Lancelot, his eyes widened immediately and he stood up, his chains rattling as he moved.  He had plenty of slack in them; he couldn’t reach the door from where he was, but he could move fairly freely within the hemisphere they permitted him.  “Lancey!”

They met a few feet inside of the door, Vane throwing his arms around Lancelot and wrapping him in a tight hug.  Lancelot was more careful, wary of touching Vane’s back.  It had looked healed in Red’s crystal, but he couldn’t entirely wipe the memory of the blackened, oozing flesh from his mind.  The scratches on his own back itched, but he forced himself to concentrate on the warmth of his friend’s body against his.

Lancelot let out a shaky breath and let himself relax in Vane’s embrace.  There was so much left to do.  They needed to go as soon as possible, but he needed a moment to fortify himself.  Vane had always been his vote of confidence, his friend, his tireless ally.  Vane’s arms around him, united at last, gave him the trickle of strength he sorely needed to keep going.

His eyes were burning.  He blinked them rapidly, trying to hold back the sudden onset of tears.  It wasn’t time to deal with this yet, he told himself.  No time for a fit.  They were committed; he needed to act.

“Lancey?  Are you okay?” Vane asked.

After a painful swallow, his voice almost sounded normal.  “I’m fine, Vane,” he said as he stepped back.  Thankfully the light was dim enough that Vane probably wouldn’t spot the wetness at the corner of his eyes.  “Let’s go.”

There was a hint of doubt in Vane’s eyes, but he nodded firmly.  “All right.”

Lancelot undid the chains using the rune he’d seen Twenty use on the door.  As with his room, the rune for the chains and the door were matched.  Vane rubbed at his wrists and stretched, but he winced as he reached full extension.  His back must still be bothering him.  But his voice was boisterous as he said, "What a relief!  So, what’s the plan?  Wait… who’s she?”

Twenty was peeking through the door at them, half hidden behind the wall.  Lancelot searched around for the words to describe her and the situation.  “Red’s been kidnapping children, I think.  There are others, though I’ve only met her and two of the boys.  She says that there are nine of them in total.  They seem to have free run of the complex, but… they’re in bad shape.”

“I can see that,” Vane said, heading towards the door.  “She looks like she hasn’t been eating well…”

Twenty pulled back around the corner of the jamb as if trying to hide, and Lancelot caught Vane’s arm just as Vane seemed to realize that he was frightening her and stopped.  Vane’s eyebrows were pulled down and close together, his anger rising, but he only gave Lancelot a brief glimpse of it before he softened his expression, probably to avoid frightening the girl further.  Vane had always been good with children.  “What’s her name?” Vane asked.  “Do you know?”

Lancelot hesitated.  “She calls herself Twenty.  One of the other boys is Five.  The other one I saw… he wouldn’t talk to me at all.”

“We have to get them out,” Vane said.  There was not an ounce of doubt in him, neither about the course of action nor whether Lancelot would agree.  A pang of guilt struck Lancelot hard.  The decision hadn’t been quite so clear to him.  He would never have abandoned them completely, but the desperation dogging his mind had almost made him willing to risk their safety.

“I know,” Lancelot said, promising himself not to mistake his priorities again.  He’d simply have to find a way to fight off Red or get the children out without the use of the airship.  If nothing else, Vane could go get help while Lancelot stayed and protected the children until the Knights arrived.  “Twenty?”

She peeked around the edge of the door again, nervousness writ clear in her expression.  Thankfully, she hadn’t gone far.  Then again, she seemed to take her job of watching him seriously, even if Lancelot doubted that this was what Red had in mind when he’d stationed her outside of Lancelot’s cell.

“Do you know where the others are?” he asked.

Her gaze wandered uncertainly before she answered.  “Maybe.”

“Will they come with us?” Vane asked quietly.  When she didn’t answer immediately, Vane looked at Lancelot.  “She seems frightened.  What if we went after Red directly?”

For a moment he thought of hiding from Vane the reason the idea filled him with such dread.  He could simply defer with the fact that he didn’t have his weapons.  But this was Vane, so he forced himself to answer with the truth.  “I’m not certain I can take him.”

Vane’s look was incredulous.  “He’s that good?”

“No,” Lancelot replied, some of his frustration creeping into his voice.  It was hard to put into words what had been wrong about the battle with Red before.  “When I fought him, he was entirely on the defensive.  I’m not sure that he was capable of responding to my attacks without leaving himself open.  But there was something wrong about how he fought.  Something which bothered me.”

“Was it his style?  Did he fight dirty?”

“No…” Lancelot said, remembering the exchange of blows and the feeling of how Red’s blade against his.  There hadn’t been enough resistance to his blocks, or… it was as if Red’s blade wasn’t where it had looked like it was.  That it was angled differently from what he saw.  “He stopped the fight before I could put my finger on it, but it was if I was fighting a lie.  Several times I should have scored a hit and yet he didn’t even flinch, and I didn’t feel any resistance on my blades.  And his blocks were wrong.  They looked like the proper response to my attacks, but how my swords moved against them wasn’t right.  They’d slide off in an unexpected direction.  He told me later that he had some kind of ability to cast illusions, and we don’t have anything to counter that.”  With a sigh, he shook his head.  “I might be able to adapt to it, but I don’t have my swords, either.  I don’t have a chance if I’m unarmed.  He’s strong.”

Vane rubbed his cheek ruefully, the healing black eye evidence that he’d had at least one physical altercation with Red.  “I know.”

“Let’s try to find the children first, and see if they’re willing to leave.”  It was a risk, Lancelot knew.  If any of them were more loyal to Red than Five or Twenty, Lancelot and Vane could find themselves captured again.  But as plans went, it wasn’t terrible.  He turned back to Twenty.  “Can you take us to where you think the others might be?”

Twenty frowned, then nodded.  She led them to the right, away from where Lancelot’s cell was.  It seemed like everything Lancelot would want to reach had been placed as far from him as possible.  The two rooms he’d been to aside from his cell – the practice room where he’d fought Five, and the room where Red had tortured him – had been much closer.  He had to think that it was deliberate.  How many rooms in the complex were empty?  Or… did Red have other prisoners like him, locked up somewhere on the other side of the complex?

It didn’t bear thinking about.  He didn’t have the resources to search for people he wasn’t sure existed.  After he returned to Feendrache and met up with Percival and Siegfried, they could come back together and thoroughly investigate the entire place, hopefully dealing with Red in the process.

When they reached their destination, Lancelot already recognized the difference.  This corridor was less well-lit than the others, and the doors along the sides were tightly clustered together.  Lancelot and Vane’s cells had been more like rooms, with nondescript doors that wouldn’t be out of place in a castle on a war-time footing.  One would only realize they were cells if you looked inside.  The doors in this section, however, were unmistakably cell doors.  There were tiny windows set in them with bars, small slats for sliding trays of food into the cell, and mechanical locks.  It was unexpected, given the freedom of movement that Five and Twenty had.  But he soon realized that while these looked like cells, most of the doors hung partially open, and when he peered into the first few rooms which appeared locked, there was no one there.  Twenty stopped a few doors in and turned to them expectantly.

Vane and Lancelot shared a glance and moved as one to the partially open door next to where Twenty stood.  Lancelot stayed back, looking back down the hallway they’d just passed through as Vane knocked on the door.  “Hello?” Vane asked gently.

“Who’s there?”

The voice was that of a little girl, frightened.  Vane looked at Lancelot for confirmation and then slowly pushed the door open wider.  “We’re friends.  We’re here to get you out of here.”

“Really?”  It was heartbreaking to hear the relief in the girl’s voice.  “I… I can’t walk, though.”

Vane hurried through the door, and Lancelot followed.  But only a few steps inside, Vane stopped suddenly, drawing in a large gasp.  Then he moved forward twice as fast, kneeling at the side of the pallet with the girl on it.  The only light in the room came from the door, and Vane’s body cast a shadow over the girl’s face, but her legs were visible from where Lancelot stood.  They were a mottled purple and red from bruising, and her left calf was subtly bent.  It had to be a break.

Vane looked at Lancelot.  “I can carry her, but we’ll need to splint the leg first.”

Lancelot nodded shortly.  All he could hope was that none of the others were in such bad condition.  He went to Vane’s side, looking around for something he might be able to use for support.  They could rip up the pallet for cloth, but they needed something hard and straight for the braces.

“I’m sorry, mister,” the girl said, her voice suddenly uncertain as she grabbed at something at her side.  “He told me I had to.”

Lancelot reared back, sensing that something was wrong, but suddenly there was smoke everywhere.  The girl was clutching a small ball and streamers of white erupted from between her fingertips at a frightening rate.  He could hear Vane coughing next to him, and he pressed a hand over his mouth and nose.  The little smoke he’d already inhaled burned his throat, and the room spun dizzily around him.  The girl sprawled on the pallet had a blissful expression on her face, her eyes already shut.  And the door was closed.  Footsteps pounded away in the hallway outside.  It had to be Twenty.

He stumbled toward the door, but as he had feared, it was already locked.  A heavy thump from behind him was likely Vane falling to the floor.  His lungs burned with the absence of air, and as blackness crept in from the corner of his vision, his hand fell away from his mouth as the ground rushed up to meet him.


	14. Chapter 14

It was the first time he hadn’t had a nightmare since the night which Red had taken him.  His consciousness slowly surfaced from a dark, empty abyss.  With it came an awareness of his body.  His palms and wrists ached.  He must have managed to retain enough awareness to use them to shield himself as he fell.  As the drug had overtaken him.  As the memories flooded back, his breath quickened in his chest and his heartbeat accelerated.  He was on his knees and there were arms encircling him from behind, holding his limp body against someone’s chest.  Rope lined his arms from his wrists to just below his elbows, locking them securely into place in the small of his back.  Reluctantly he opened his eyes.  He recognized the white sleeves with their spill of lace at the cuffs.  Red.  Red was holding him.  Of course.  They were back in his cell.  And Vane was bound hand to foot on the floor in front of him, gagged and still unconscious.

It should have filled him with anger or fear, but what overrode everything else was a quiet, crushing defeat.

“Awake already?  I think your friend will be out for a while yet.”

Lancelot didn’t answer.  Red would have been able to tell he was awake by his breathing and the motion of his head.  Confirmation wasn’t necessary.  He needed to concentrate.  Figure out the next step.  Decide how he was going to make his next bid for freedom.  But everything seemed to ring so hollow.

All he could see was Vane in front of him.  They’d been caught, and Vane was here for a reason.  The last time he and Vane had been together in this room had been…

Red’s arms tightened around his chest.  “I planned several possible avenues for your attempted escape, but I didn’t predict that you would choose this one.  I simply cannot comprehend why you would develop such an attachment to creatures you already knew were mine.”

“They’re children,” Lancelot said, quietly.  He shuddered, suddenly remembering the girl’s obviously broken leg, the bruising, and the desperate hope he’d heard in her voice when they’d called for her, even when she must have already made the decision to turn them over to Red in the end.  “I couldn’t leave them here.”

Red was silent for a moment, and Lancelot had the impression he was smiling.  “Your adherence to your principles does not cease to amaze me.  It is an inescapable weakness, and yet you refuse to give them up.  I would have long ago sacrificed everything else for my own survival.”

That didn’t seem to need a reply either.

One of Red’s hands rose from Lancelot’s waist and lightly stroked the side of his neck.  The touch made his skin crawl, but he didn’t bother to try to avoid it.  Red would apply whatever pressure he needed to get what he wanted.  “I believe I warned you that the next time you crossed me, I’d carve some piece off of your friend, didn’t I?”

The words woke an emotional response in him that cut through his mental fog.  He tensed, ready to act, but there was no move he could make, no way he could affect this outcome.  His desperation was useless.  “Vane,” he whispered.

“Relax,” Red said with a soft chuckle.  “I’ve simply ensured that our discussion can continue without any unfortunate interference.  It would lose some of its impact if you didn’t watch, don’t you think?  Ah… but I did have quite a bit of time to think about it while you napped.  He seems to be a terrible influence on you.  I considered several options, but in the end,” he said, as his hand traced up the side of Lancelot’s chin and grazed his lips, “perhaps I should simply take his tongue.”

It hit him like a blow.  The idea was so pointlessly cruel.  A hand he might have expected.  That would have made it materially more difficult for the two of them to escape; it had been his worst-case scenario.  But the tongue?  They could manage, work around it.  But Vane would never banter with Percival, never talk with Siegfried, never call Lancelot’s name.  It was… vicious.

It was everything he should have expected.

“No protest?” Red asked with a chuckle.  “Does he matter less to you than I thought?  Or are you simply struck dumb?”

Lancelot closed his eyes, feeling the current of the conversation, the familiar teasing tone in Red’s voice.  Red was playing another game, as he had when he burned Vane.  He was willing to make a deal, but he wanted Lancelot to make the first move.  “What do you want?” he asked, quietly.

“Ah,” Red said, in tones of deep satisfaction.  “Exactly what I was waiting for.  Perhaps you’re finally ready.”

Red let go of Lancelot and he swayed as Red circled around him, settling down cross-legged to where their knees almost touched.  Fishing around in his pouch, Red produced a coin-sized white stone with deep green striations that seemed to glisten in the light.  He held it pinched between his thumb and index finger, delicately, as if he was reluctant to hold it too tightly.  “This is an oath stone.  You see, with your code of knightly ethics, I can’t simply accept your promises that you’d be faithful to me.  I know how you see me; eventually you’d overcome your resistance and strike me down, even though it would make you an oathbreaker.  I require a guarantee.  And on the island of Golonzo, if you search quite carefully, you can find little trinkets like this, which carry the power of Mithra.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to trick me into swearing to you, then,” Lancelot said.  After all, lying had been the first thing which Red had made him do to save Vane.

“Alas, it is not nearly so convenient as being on the island itself,” Red said, tucking it back into his pouch.  “You have to be in a certain frame of mind for the oath to take.  If you aren’t – if you reject it strongly enough – you can even destroy the stone.  They’re quite difficult to procure.”

It either required you to deliberately take the oath, or to simply be too exhausted to resist, then.  It hardly mattered the particulars.  “You want me to swear to you over that stone, and then you’ll free Vane?”

Red leaned back, studying him with narrowed eyes as if sensing the subtle undercurrent in the question.  “There are a few other steps involved, but you have captured the gist.”

It felt like a rock was crushing his chest as he drew in a breath and said, “No.”  It sounded much less certain than he wanted it to.  Vane didn’t deserve any of this, to be caught up in a madman’s game and traded around like a casino chip.  To lose his tongue… and that would only be the start.  Red would escalate, Lancelot was certain.  His friend would suffer dearly before Red gave up and killed them both.  But how much harm would Lancelot do if he gave in to Red?  Red could turn him against Feendrache… he had no assurances that this wasn’t simply the first sally in a larger assault.

“A pity… no, a tragedy.  To abandon your friend to his fate while knowing you hold the key to save him.”  Red leaned back, his arms extended behind him, one hand settling right next to Vane’s head.  Lancelot saw the red ring glittering on Red’s finger, and Vane’s screams echoed distantly in his ears.  His gaze returned to Red’s face as he tried desperately to block the memory out.  “I wonder, however… have you truly thought your decision through?”

“I won’t swear to you.  I can’t imagine anything would change that.”

“Perhaps it is your imagination which is lacking, then.  Let me exercise a bit of effort with the canvas, so the results of your decision will be clear to you.”  Red pushed himself forward, up on his knees. He scooted uncomfortably close, reaching out a hand to grip Lancelot’s chin, forcing Lancelot to meet his gaze directly.  A faint hint of some heavy, bitter scent filled the air, a sharp contrast to the peculiar sweetness.  All the taunting was gone like a switch, his eyes appearing true crimson, as if the flecks had overwhelmed the brown.  Red’s voice was low and even.  “If you refuse to surrender, I’ll cut out your friend’s tongue out today, as I said I would.  And I will have to admit that my kindness has failed to bring about the results I desire.  And I have been kind.  I wanted to take you unharmed, as much of your mind intact as possible.  But if my kindness is insufficient, then I will simply have no other choice than to take you however I can get you.

“You won’t see the light for days at a time.  I will hurt you, drawing a cacophony of pain from your body which will leave you screaming for hours even after I’ve left.  And I will leave little opportunities for you to escape, as I did before, and when you take them – because you haven’t given up yet – I will maim your friend in retribution.  Eventually you will either regret your decision, or your mind will shatter, and I will take your oath.  As I promised, if you swear to me, I will still send your friend back to your country in whatever broken condition your continued resistance has left him in.  But if, after I have done my worst, you still refuse to submit… then when you finally die screaming, I’ll put your friend out of his misery and move on to your little country.”

As Lancelot stared at him in horror, Red stroked his jaw tenderly with his thumb, a gentle smile on his face as he spoke those terrible, final words.  He gave them a moment to resonate before he continued.  “I want you because you’re useful, but I also told you, didn’t I, that I wanted revenge?  I’m not going to be satisfied with just two deaths, no matter how much pain I will put you two through before you finally claim that release.  Your continued suffering is the only thing which will truly satisfy me.  But I will accept gazing over the burning wreckage of your beloved country if that is the only option left to me.”

The only sound for a few long moments was their breathing, strangely in sync.  “Siegfried will stop you,” Lancelot said, finally, barely able to whisper it.

“Your mentor? Perhaps he will.  But I am very resourceful, and quite patient.  I guarantee you that I will do significant damage before he succeeds, if he can stop me at all.  In this, as in everything else, the question is how much you’re willing to see the things which you love suffer before you bend your neck.  Though… I suppose you wouldn’t be around to see it, at that point?”  Red’s tone was lighter on the question, though it was no less threatening.  But his tone dropped as he continued, warm and intimate.  “This is my final kindness to you, Lancelot: the opportunity to surrender now.”

Red’s gaze transfixed him.  The absolute belief the man had in his words speared his chest.  He’d thought himself so clever in finding a way out of his cell and finding a guide to Vane’s.  The thought that it could be a trap had crossed his mind, but looking back now, he couldn’t think of what he might have done differently.  The children were Red’s, but that heartrending apology before the child had released the sleep smoke… he couldn’t simply leave them here, even now.  And that was another chain which Red would use to bind him.  It was too much.  He couldn’t bear up under this weight.  And the thought that even if he held out to the end that Red would go after Feendrache…

All of the energy drained from him.  His shoulders slumped, and he let Red hold his chin where it was.  He saw the satisfaction fill Red’s eyes and it hurt, a hollow echo of a deeper ache.  “Free the children as well.  And… don’t hurt Vane.”

“I have to have my bit of flesh,” Red said.  Lancelot pulled away, trying to collect his thoughts.  What else could he offer to make Red leave Vane be?  But Red’s fingers tightened on his chin, holding him still.  His voice was low and almost soothing as he continued.  “My promises are sacrosanct.  But if you satisfy me, I’ll just mark him.  Leave him something small to remember us by and nothing more.”

“If I satisfy you.”  Lancelot clenched his hands into fists as they began to tremble.

“Don’t you remember that I made you another promise?”  Red let go of his chin, and wrapped a hand around the back of Lancelot’s neck, pushing him inexorably down to the floor as Red moved to his side.  His forehead rested against the stone, but his chest heaved as the fear filled him.  He had no idea of Red’s intentions, and he didn’t remember the promise the man was referring to.  But he was certain he didn’t want to remember it.  Not with the way Red spoke about it.  After a few moments of silence, Red tsked.  “I told you that you’d spread your legs willingly for me, and come when I snapped my fingers.”

Lancelot’s gorge rose as Red untied his hands.  Now he remembered.  It was foggy, because he’d been under the effect of the drugs at the time.  Acid filled his mouth, and he swallowed.  “That’s what you want for Vane.”

“For him to keep his tongue, yes.  For a… lighter sentence.”  Red’s hand left the back of his neck, letting him sit back up, if he wanted.  It took him some time to work up the energy to do it.  He knew what was facing him when he did.  But what he hadn’t expected was to see Vane’s eyes open, staring at him.  Vane deliberately shook his head.  It was a tiny motion, but clear.  Vane didn’t want this.

Lancelot swallowed again, his tongue stinging, and turned to Red.  “He’s awake,” he said quietly.  He could feel Vane’s gaze boring into him.  It had to seem like a betrayal.  It was a betrayal, Lancelot corrected himself.  Whether it was for the best or not, Vane wouldn’t agree to any of this.  He hadn’t seen what Lancelot had seen.  This had to seem like madness to him.

“Will that be a problem for you?" Red asked, but the smile playing around the edge of his mouth made it clear that he knew Lancelot found the idea distasteful.

"Take him out of here, please," Lancelot said, looking away and ignoring Vane's muffled noises of protest.

"If you insist," Red said with a dry laugh.

Vane struggled the entire way out, and Lancelot refused to look at him, waiting until they had left the room before he looked up from the stone floor.  Red had left the door open behind him.  Lancelot stared at the open door, idly wondering whether Red had changed the rune lock while he was passed out.  The gap between the open door and the frame was a pointed reminder that he'd already agreed to Red's terms.  If he tried to leave now… it would simply be another trap, and Red wouldn’t give him another chance.  He lurched to his feet and walked over to the side of the table, pouring himself a cup of water while he waited for Red to return.  The drugged smoke had left a sour taste in his mouth, and even as he downed the first cup and then another, he couldn’t seem to get rid of it.


	15. Chapter 15

Lancelot felt the change in the air of the room even before he heard the quiet thump as the door shut.  He was standing with his back to it, facing the table, but even though he hadn’t heard Red enter, he knew that the man had returned.  The room was blanketed with a thick cloud of menace and anticipation.  He let out a long breath and set the cup down on the table.  Though he had done his best not to think in the intervening minutes since Red had left with Vane, he felt shaky.  Bearing up under Red’s advances was one thing, but he wasn’t sure that he was capable of being ‘willing’.  Or ‘satisfying’.  The thought of letting Red touch him was sickening, and the idea that he might be expected to reciprocate was far worse.

He steeled himself, expecting Red to take the initiative.  His skin crawled at the thought of Red’s arms encircling him, pulling him against the other man’s chest.  The touch of Red’s fingers on his jaw, his neck, his cheek.  His breath hitched as his fears about what was coming drew forth the memories of what had happened before.  But even as the phantom fingers caressed him, the time stretched out in silence.  Red wasn’t moving.  There was no sign he was planning to do anything at all.

Lancelot’s stomach was an empty, hollow void as he turned around.  Too familiar with Red’s cruelty, he half expected that there might be some further horror awaiting him.  Red could very well have brought Vane back with him, only teasing Lancelot with the possibility that he might be able to bargain his way out of Red’s punitive revenge before forcing Lancelot to watch as Red enacted it regardless.  Or perhaps he’d brought along one of the children to demonstrate that their ‘freedom’ could only be achieved in death.  There were probably options which Red had considered which Lancelot couldn’t even imagine.  He hadn’t imagined that Red would maim a child and then use her as both bait and trigger, despite thinking that Lancelot couldn’t possibly be so stupid as to fall into a trap so obvious…

But for all of his fears, what he saw when he turned was simply Red standing there with his back resting against the door.  His posture was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, his arms crossed over his chest, the lace bunched over his forearms.  His lips were curled in a satisfied, smug smile as he watched Lancelot silently.  It was absolutely clear that he didn’t intend to make the first move.  Slowly, he uncrossed his arms, lifting one hand up, pressing his thumb to his ring finger.

The dry sound of his snapping filled the room, and Lancelot flinched.

He hadn’t planned for this.  Hadn’t thought he’d have to act.  Had thought that the worst of his involvement would be having to obey Red’s orders and swallow his hatred and fear so he wouldn’t lash out when Red pushed him to the edge.  But that had been naive, he realized.  Willing… Red wanted the pretension of desire.  Bare tolerance wasn’t going to be sufficient.

This wasn’t completely foreign, though he hadn’t actually fooled around with a girl since he was a teenager, still figuring out what he wanted.  And if depth of experience was the question, what Isabella and Red had done to him was far beyond what he’d ever done with anyone else.  Laughing kisses during a festival weren’t… this.  What Red wanted had to be different. 

Doubt dragged at his thoughts.  ‘Doing his best’ might not be enough.  Vane’s reprieve would be bought with Red’s satisfaction.  And what that meant… Lancelot had no idea.

Fine.  Fine, he told himself.  He’d start with a kiss.  That was something which people did in this situation.  All the other alternatives he considered were just… ridiculous.  And if he didn’t move soon, he was afraid he’d never move at all.  With determination, he crossed the distance that separated them and grabbed the lace of Red’s shirt, pulling him in, roughly pressing his lips against the other’s man’s mouth.  When Red’s lips parted, inviting him in, it caught him off guard.  He hesitated, then remembered how Isabella had kissed him, how Red had.  Thrusting his tongue in, he pushed Red against the door.  A tiny part of him was mortified.  But if this was what he needed to do to save Vane, then there was no question that he would do it.  And Red was letting him have his way.  Lancelot had no idea why anyone would find getting a tongue jammed in their mouth appealing, but if it was working…

Suddenly, Red shoved a knee between his legs and twisted, throwing him slightly off balance.  Lancelot pulled back, but Red encircled one arm around his waist, holding him in place.  Now Red’s tongue invaded his mouth instead, pushing past his own tongue and tickling his throat.  He could feel Red’s cock against his leg, warm and hard, straining against the cloth which separated them.  Panic filled him, and the hands which had been entangled in Red’s shirt pushed, trying to get the other man away from him.  Yet Red held him in place as he struggled, only letting him free in the brief moment when he finally went still.  Lancelot stumbled backwards.  He needed some space between him and Red, a moment to collect himself.

Red followed him, though, keeping the distance intimate, barely inches between them.  “As interesting as it is to see you try to overwhelm me, I said I wanted ‘willing’, not ‘overbearing’.  Know your place, or I will be forced to remind you of it.”

“You seemed to like inflicting it on others.”  The words slipped out of him without thought.

Red’s eyes narrowed, but apparently the accusation wasn’t enough to dampen his mood, as he flashed his teeth as he smiled once more.  “Nothing more than a misunderstanding then, easily cleared up.  Now, would you like to try again?  Imagine this is your wedding night, and you’ve been aching for your lover’s touch, then act accordingly.”  Red chuckled.  “After all, we’re about to exchange a very intimate oath, you and I.”

Hatred seethed in him, but he tamped down on it, hard.  It wasn’t a useful tool to get him through this situation, and the raw, angry emotion made him feel ugly inside.  How would he act in that situation?  If there was a woman or a man who he loved enough to dedicate his life to…

_Vane_ _…_

The thought was like a soap bubble, tremulous and transient.  Yes, Vane was the reason why he was doing all of this.  But if it was Vane… he dismissed all the complications that thought brought and let the thought of his friend fill his mind.  His fingers moved of their own accord as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt.  Even with Vane as his shield, he was painfully aware of Red’s eyes on him, judging and amused.  As he reached the bottom, the buttons slipped out of fingertips gone numb.  He had to try several times to finish the job.  As he drew off the shirt and let it fall to the ground, it was as if he was staring at himself from somewhere behind his own head.  There was a distance between the part of him that was acting and the part of him which was thinking.  All of his emotions had spilled out across the floor, leaving him cold and empty.  He stopped for a second, but of course Red wouldn’t be satisfied with just his shirt.  The enormity of what he was accepting crashed over him.  His hands mechanically undid the laces on the pants.  When they fell to the ground, pooled around his ankles, it took a massive effort of will to step out of them toward Red and not away.  There was no way to mistake Red’s auburn hair for Vane’s bright blond.

As Lancelot stood before Red, Red took Lancelot’s hands and brought them up to the buttons on his shirt, hidden underneath the spill of lace.  Lancelot swallowed, taking the hint.  The lace tickled his hands as he worked, and the familiar over-sweet scent filled the air, making him dizzy.  Red didn’t rush him, didn’t even touch him while he undid the buttons.  The lack of response would have been a relief if it weren’t for the painful intimacy of standing there naked while he was undressing someone else.  When his mind strayed in the direction of what would happen next, he steered it away, focusing on exactly what was in front of him, and Vane’s smile, his genuine, pure laughter.  When the shirt was off, he moved to the belt.

“Don’t you think it’d be easier if you were on your knees?” Red commented.  “It will certainly be difficult to get the boots off if you’re still standing.”

Lancelot flinched, hesitating, but after a moment he lowered himself down onto on his knees.  The stone floor was cold and hard.  He jerked as Red entangled his fingers in Lancelot’s hair, stroking the back of his neck where his skull met his spine.  With effort Lancelot forced his hands to move to the boots first, as Red had reminded him.  It was hard to concentrate on the laces with Red lightly kneading the back of his head.  The skin of his neck tingled, and the sensation crept slowly down his back.  As he removed the boots, one of Red’s hands grazed the top of his shoulder, then came up to brush along the side of his jaw.  Reluctantly, he looked up.

“How do you feel?” Red asked, smiling down at him.

The question caught him off-guard.  Sickened, of course.  Was Red expecting him to lie, another part of this farce?  However, just being asked the question made the world around him blur and the physical sensations he was experiencing come into sharp relief.  His breathing was quicker than usual, his heart beating a rapid rhythm in his chest.  However, despite that his muscles felt languid.  He could see Red’s other hand hanging at his side, and felt the fingers still pressed against his chin, but something ghosted across his knuckles, and he could feel thumbs caressing the inside of his thighs.  The chill of the stone had crept into the bones of his calves, but above that he was warm, his groin tight, and his cock already stiffening.  Memories, stirred from the back of his mind, cut at him like debris driven before a tempest wind. 

“Struck speechless?  Shh.  You don’t have to answer.  Go ahead.”  The tone was tender, but Lancelot could hear the derision hidden underneath the surface.

Lancelot looked away hurriedly, returning his attention to the belt.  The best thing he could do was get this over with.  If Red wanted to mistake that for eagerness on Lancelot’s part, he was welcome to it.  He set the belt down on the ground carefully, trying not to disturb the pouches, then quickly undid the fastenings on the trousers and pulled them down, trying to ignore Red’s cock as it swung free.  Instead he found himself transfixed by Red’s legs.  The man was hairless… unnaturally so.  Lancelot stared up at the rest of Red’s body, realizing that there was no hair on his chest either, nor between his legs, only on his head.  In every other way he was as pristine as a doll.  No scars, no deformities, but besides that, none of the natural bumps or birthmarks or moles which everyone had.

Skydwellers…

Red’s hands cupped his chin, bringing his attention back to reality.  Red’s cock bobbed at the edge of Lancelot’s vision, and Lancelot fixed his gaze on the man’s brown eyes as the best of the terrible alternatives.  Red’s lips twitched with a hint of humor.  “Why don’t you try using your mouth?”

Sadly, Lancelot wasn’t innocent enough to misunderstand that, no matter how much he wished he was.  Red’s hands fell away as Lancelot sat up on his knees and focused on Red’s cock, which he had deliberately tried to ignore earlier.  It curved upwards, fully erect, the tip glistening with a drip of moisture on the crease.  Perhaps… if he was lucky, this would be the end of it.  All he needed to do was this one distasteful thing and Vane would be safe.  Thinking of Vane had helped before.  Vane.  If this was Vane…

This wasn’t Vane.  This was Red forcing him to playact to save Vane’s tongue.

The anger rose in him like a wave, sudden, shockingly fast, riding the edge of his fear.  He shook with the strength of the emotion, his eyes fixed on Red’s cock and unable to look away.  Revulsion.  Hatred.  The feelings consumed him.  He could see himself with his hands fixed around Red’s neck, choking the life out of him.  Red’s wretched, long limbs thrashing, his hair spread across the ground like spilled blood.

“Lancelot.”

The sound of his name was like a slap across his face, Red’s tone plain, precise, and chill.  He’d already been through all of this before and knew where it would end.  Instead of lashing out, he lashed inward, strangling his own anger.  The fear broke over him, but in its wake was nothing.

That was the solution to this.  Don’t think.  Don’t feel.  Just act.

Before he could have second or third thoughts, he hooked two fingers around the base of the shaft and pulled it down to him.  As it passed by his lips, the head bumped against his tongue, leaving a smear of salty liquid in its wake that made his throat close up.  He pressed down on his revulsion, trying to concentrate simply on the physical sensations and nothing more.  The skin was soft and smooth where it rested against his tongue, faintly pulsing with Red’s heartbeat.  Distantly he heard a satisfied sigh, but the sound reminded him of things he didn’t want to think about.

“Just like that,” Red murmured.  “Use your tongue.  Take it further in.”  Red placed his hands on Lancelot’s shoulders, causing him to draw in a startled gasp, the air sucked past the shaft and his lips, and Red shuddered.

This had nothing to do with Red.  It had nothing to do with Isabella.  It even had nothing to do with Vane.  Lancelot drew his tongue along the bottom of the shaft, feeling the skin shift a bit over the stiffness underneath, then forced himself to push forward.  As the head settled at the base of his tongue, he shivered.  It felt like it was going to cut off his air.  He reached up, grabbing the back of Red’s thighs to hold himself in place, and the hands on his shoulders tightened.

Move.  He should move.  He’d touched himself before.  It had to translate somehow into this.  He closed his lips around the shaft and sucked.  The faint taste of salt.  The thighs under his hands swayed forward, the head of Red’s cock dipping down his throat, and Red’s shiver was unmistakable.  Lancelot was forced back, and his legs ached with how they tried to hold him up while hovering over his ankles.  His muscles burned.  He made a small noise of protest in the back of his throat, but there was simply no way to continue as he was.

Above him, a sigh.  Legs pressed against his hands as Red shuffled back.  The head retreated until he could breathe, but he was pulled forward by his shoulders right to his limit.  Surrounded by the void where his emotions should be, Lancelot inhaled, then exhaled.  A thumb traced his collarbone and sparks ignited down his chest.  Lancelot groaned, and his tongue moved, and he felt the twitch both from the cock in his mouth and his own groin.  In any other situation… no.  He couldn’t afford to think about the situation.

The hands on his shoulders lifted, cupped his face, then circled to the back of his head.  The fingers gentle, encouraging, guiding him to move.  As his tongue glided over the shaft in his mouth, the recognition of what he was allowing threatened to rear up once more, and he forced it down.  He fixed on the feeling of the hands in his hair, the light scratch of fingernails against the scalp.  It felt… good.  Warmth uncoiled, spread through his limbs.  The tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders drained out of him, replaced by something that was less fear and more need.

No.  No, he didn’t want this.  He didn’t.

That rejection, too, he crushed.  His thoughts felt distant, unimportant.  There was some sort of insistent murmuring in the back of his mind, and he shoved it away until it was nothing more than a faint whisper.  He couldn’t seem to quell it entirely.  But there were the memories to rely on.  They were just as demanding.  The feel of hands on his skin, seeking out the places which struck a chord, forcing him to respond. 

The hand on his arm caught him off guard, and Lancelot was pulled free and boosted to his unsteady feet with a gasp that mixed surprise with pleasure.  He caught a brief glimpse of Red’s widened eyes as Lancelot’s knees gave and he fell against the other man.  His cock grazed Red’s leg and he trembled as the sensation threatened to overwhelm him.  Arms encircled him, holding him up.

“It seems I’ve been remiss,” Red said.

A light caress across his back, grazing the scratches, made Lancelot tense.  He heard a distant chuckle.  The arms around him pulled him along until his legs struck the side of the bed and he fell onto the mattress.  He curled around himself, turning his face into the sheets.  He couldn’t afford to look.  If he looked, he might think, might feel.  All he needed to know was the fever pitch of his body.

“One more thing,” Red whispered, laying his hand on Lancelot’s thigh.  “Do you remember?”

Spread his legs.  He panted as he fought to divorce the context from the raw memory of what he needed to do.  Nausea rose in his stomach as he rolled onto his hands and knees, digging his fingers into the sheets.  What must he look like — no.  No thinking.  He definitely couldn’t think about what was going to happen, the sharp, tearing pain which Red had inflicted on him before.  He clenched his hands into fists, until the cloth simply wouldn’t compress any further, and rocked back and forth from knee to knee until he felt his balls and cock hanging in the cool air, far away from the heat of the rest of his body.

Something hard and pointed dug into his shoulder.  Before he could stop himself he turned his head, catching a glimpse of a violet crystal before he jerked away, staring down into the white sheets underneath him before the image was forced on him.

He couldn’t take any more.  “Finish this,” he said.

“I’ll charitably consider that eagerness,” Red murmured.  He drew a line down Lancelot’s spine, his finger stopping right above Lancelot’s buttocks.

Silently Lancelot shook his head, his hands trembling.  Red lifted his hand and walked away.  Lancelot reluctantly glanced after him; Red had gone back to the clothing discarded on the floor.  He crouched there, the line of his body slim, his thin fingers graceful as he fished around in the pouches.  The brief flash of another of the violet crystals between Red’s fingers made Lancelot’s stomach churn, and he looked away, closing his eyes tightly.

“You needn’t be frightened,” Red said as he returned, sitting on the side of the bed next to Lancelot.  He stroked the back of Lancelot’s knee, sending a tingle of pleasure up his thigh.  “I plan to savor dragging every gasp of pleasure out of you.  I want this to be a memorable experience for both of us.”

The voice lingered in his ears as Red’s hand crept up the inside of his leg.  He hardly needed the reminder of how it felt.  He remembered every moment of Red’s hands between his legs.  Even before Red grazed the underside of his balls with the knuckle of his thumb, he could already feel his pulse pounding through his body.

Red shifted, and Lancelot heard the dull snick of metal twisting against metal.  His chest tightened as his breathing sped up, anticipating the worst.

“Relax,” Red said, as his fingers delved between Lancelot’s cheeks, generously covering the area in a warm, oily cream.  “It won’t hurt.”

Lies.  As Red lightly tapped him with the tip of a finger, every muscle in him tensed in fear.  Red turned the hand between his legs, cupping Lancelot’s balls in his palm, stroking them.  Lancelot’s mind focused there, and for a moment he relaxed, just to tense again as Red took advantage of his distraction to slide his finger in up to the first knuckle.  It did hurt— but only for a moment, then gone.

More drugs?  …but no.  That was the faint tingle of a healing balm.  Suddenly, the ridiculousness of all of it made him want to laugh.  Red could tear him open again and again and the balm would simply wash away all of the damage.  There was an edge of hysteria in it, and he silently bit his tongue and shook his head.

Red took his time, teasing Lancelot with his other hand, waiting for those brief moments when Lancelot was distracted enough to sink his finger just a bit deeper.  And even that began to wake a new response, as more cream was applied, and Red’s probing slid easily past his defenses.  As Red had promised, there was no pain, and the inevitability of it wore him down until he no longer tensed when he felt that questing tip.  And the sensation of it inside of him, once the fear had faded, mingled with the tension building in his groin until he could no longer tell one from another, only the waves of warmth flooding him.

And then the finger inside of him twisted for the first time, and caught off guard by the sudden, intense shot of pleasure, he cried out.

He panted as Red relaxed, the world still spinning around him.

“Let’s hear a bit more of that, shall we?” Red murmured, and did it again.

The cry which was ripped from him was louder this time, and Red didn’t relent so quickly.  The pleasure was overwhelming, terrifyingly strong. 

“Ahh,” Lancelot gasped.  He’d collapsed forward somewhere in the middle of it, mindlessly tearing at the sheets still clutched in his balled fists.  All thought of fighting left his mind as Red’s finger twitched inside him, waiting until he relaxed completely before bringing him up once more.  “Ahhh!”

He soon lost track of the number of times Red drove him to the edge, his thoughts scattering under the assault.  Jerked around like a puppet, his breath came in desperate gasps each time Red let his strings go loose.  Bliss, undeniable, irresistible, and yet empty.  It simply woke a deeper hunger.

“Please!”  The word tore free of his throat in a moment of reprieve.  Red laughed, wriggling his fingers — when had they multiplied? — but finally relented, pulling them free. 

In the wake of it, all Lancelot could do was breathe.  His chest was pressed to the bed, the sheets damp underneath him, and for all the hollow need he felt he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t already climaxed.  But his cock was still hard, trapped between his stomach and the mattress, his legs splayed wide.  The air was filled with a thick cloying sweetness and the sour smell of his own sweat.  His hands twitched in the sheets, the muscles in his fingers aching with the tightness of his grip.

The mattress shifted as Red knelt behind him.  Lancelot silently shook his head as Red stroked his leg from knee to hip, but he moaned as his groin tightened further.  Red tugged at his hips, half urging him, half lifting him to his knees once more.  Lancelot trembled, his muscles already exhausted.  Red folded over his back, wrapping an arm around Lancelot’s waist.  His cock pressed between Lancelot’s cheeks.  “Shh,” Red whispered, and slowly pushed forward.

“Ahhh!” The cry, a mix of fear and confusion, burst from him.  Every time he began to tense, Red stopped until he relaxed again.  Red’s breathing was half between a gasp and a chuckle as he closed the gap between them until he was buried to the hilt.  Lancelot’s elbows buckled and he curled his arms around his face as he tried to deal with the overload of sensation.  It was nothing close to what Red had done before, but what it lacked in pure intensity, it made up for in thoroughness.  Every motion woke sparks of pleasure which flashed through him like a forest fire.  He shook his head helplessly against the mattress.  And then Red’s fingers closed around his cock and he groaned deep in his throat as every muscle in his stomach tightened and fire swirled inside of him.

Slowly, deliberately, and relentlessly, Red took him.  He could sense the man’s poisonous enjoyment in every motion of his hips, his hand teasing Lancelot’s cock as he retreated, then gripping hard as he went deep once more.  There was nowhere Lancelot could hide.  His gasps were punctuated by short, sharp cries when Red struck a particularly sensitive spot.  Each repetition pushed him closer to the edge, and he suddenly remembered the feeling of Red’s arm around his throat, being forced step by painful step into the corner.  He was just as trapped as he had been in the chains. 

Perhaps he’d never truly escaped them at all.

As Lancelot’s fingers loosened in the sheets, his resistance gone, Red finally began to move in earnest.  Stroked both within and without, Lancelot’s cries grew rougher as he finally let himself reach for the climax his body desperately desired.  There was no point in fighting it any longer.  No reason to deny the voice whispering his name.  The chains wound around his limbs wrapped tighter, holding him stiff and still and helpless as the climax built, then crashed over him, breaking him against remembered hardness of the stone dungeon floor under his knees.

He shook as Red coaxed every drop out of him to spill onto the sheets beneath.  And when Lancelot collapsed with a groan, Red hoisted him back up by his waist, dragging him back and holding him still as Red continued.  Tingles of pleasure quickly transitioned into the first hints of pain before Red’s thrusts lost their coordination and Red gasped in high-pitched pleasure as he trembled with the force of his own climax.

When Red finally let go, Lancelot collapsed on the bed, Red’s cock slipping out of him and drawing a chill line of moisture down his leg.  He lay there, exhausted and spent, shivering.  He couldn’t move, could barely think.  Even the growing cold of the mattress beneath him couldn’t stir him.  He gave himself over to his exhaustion, trying to ignore the lingering sensation of something inside of him and the feel of wetness trickling down his thigh.

Red’s hand on his shoulder woke a tremble deep inside of him, shoving his thoughts into motion once more.  There was a reason he had done all of this.  He needed to know that it had mattered.  “Are you satisfied?” Lancelot asked, his voice raw.

“Quite.  Beyond my wildest expectations, actually,” Red said with a laugh.  He didn’t sound winded at all.  “It was very… educational.”

Vane was safe, then.  The relief he felt was a welcome counter to the ugly morass of the rest of his emotions.  The lassitude slowly eased as he lay there, replaced by a dull ache.  The room wasn’t cold, but with the bed’s large wet spot and the sweat from their exertion, he felt like the warmth was being sucked from him.  He shrugged off Red’s hand on his shoulder and pushed himself up to a sitting position, looking for his clothing.  It was exactly where he had left it, on the floor next to Red’s.  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, still desperately trying to ignore Red’s presence, and walked over to the pile of clothing unsteadily.  But when he picked up the shirt, Red’s voice stopped him.

“You needn’t bother with the shirt for now.”

He should have felt anger, or fear, but he felt nothing but a dull frustration.  Lancelot let go of the shirt, leaving it in a heap on the floor, and reached for the pants instead.  He had to redo the laces, a slow, painstaking process, both inconvenient and uncomfortable.  He could feel Red’s gaze on him the entire time.

After he finished, he stood there, trying to decide what he should do.  He still felt weak, but he didn’t want to go back to the bed while Red was there.  His throat was dry, though.  Water.  And there were chairs at the table.

“Aren’t you going to bring my clothing to me?” Red said, interrupting his thoughts.

Wordlessly, Lancelot reached down to pick up Red’s clothing from the floor.  The belt pouch was heavy, and he heard something clink inside as he lifted it.  A dull spark of curiosity crossed his mind, but he doubted Red would sit still while he dug around in the pouches, and truthfully, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d like what he would find.  He collected the rest of it and carried it over to the side of the bed, silently handing it to Red.  Six violet crystals sat next to the man’s leg.  Lancelot turned again to go sit at the table.  Before he’d gone more than a step, though, Red’s fingers hooked the waist of his pants and jerked him backwards.

“I’d like to get some water,” Lancelot said.

“We aren’t finished yet,” Red said.  Lancelot turned to look at him, unable to hide the sudden terror he felt, and Red’s eyes narrowed in amusement.  “So eager?  But no.  If you’d take a seat and wait,” he added, motioning to the bed next to him.

Lancelot grimaced, but sat down as Red stood and dressed.  The man took his time, shaking out his long hair and fussily fixing the lace at his neck and wrists so it hung as he liked.  Last, he hung the belt around his waist, then fished around in the pouches until he pulled out the oathstone.  “I want your oath now,” Red told him.  He extended his hand, the oathstone sitting on his palm, only a shade paler white than his skin, the green striations shining in the light from the lamp above.

“Let Vane and the children go first,” Lancelot replied.  He didn’t reach for the stone.  “I think I’m less likely to break my word than you are yours.”

“Ah, but that’s exactly why I want your oath now,” Red said, his outstretched hand not moving an inch.  “I don’t think you’d intentionally lie to me, but we’ve been through why your state of mind matters.  And if you’re still willing to demand things, I’m not certain that the oath will take.  Your… earlier performance aside.  I’m hardly going to let them go and be left with nothing to show for it.”

“You can do whatever you like to make certain that I don’t leave with them.  I just want to know that they’re free.”  His voice shook slightly as he said it, and his gaze darted toward the corner before he could stop himself.  Even though that was hardly the worst thing that had happened to him in this place, the thought of being confined there once again still woke the lingering terror of his nightmares.

Red tilted his head and smiled.  “That would reduce my leverage.  In fact, I’m growing more and more concerned by the moment.”  The man sighed, tipping his hand forward and curling his fingers, gesturing for Lancelot to hurry up and take the stone.  “Have I broken a single promise to you, good or bad?  Take the oath, or I’ll have to find another way to motivate you.  Or do you need a reminder of all the options I have available to me?”

Red’s little speech from before surfaced in his mind, and a chill ran up Lancelot’s spine.  As much as he hated to admit it, Red was right: he’d never outright lied.  Reluctantly, Lancelot reached out and took the stone.  The cold smoothness against his palm stoked his memories.  He closed his fist around it and looked back at Red.  “What do I do, then?”

“Place it against your chest, near your heart, and with your hand over it.”  Red leaned forward, tapping a spot an inch left of the center of his ribcage.  Lancelot followed the instructions as Red watched, the stone cool at first, though it warmed against his skin unnaturally quickly.  This must have been the reason why Red had wanted him to leave off the shirt.  When the stone was settled in place, Red nodded and continued, “Now, repeat after me.  I, Lancelot…”

“I, Lancelot…”  The words caught in his dry throat, but he continued a few words behind Red, forcing them out even as his voice rasped.  “…swear to obey you, Red, without question or hesitation, to the best of my understanding of your intent, as long as this symbol of our binding remains intact.”  As he spoke the words, the stone continued to warm up against his skin.  By the time he finished, the heat had grown to an unpleasant level, stinging, and he could see light seeping between his fingers.  He dropped his hand, letting the stone fall away from his chest… but to his surprise, it didn’t fall.  It glowed with the light of the sun, stuck to his skin as if pinned there.  He stared in horror as he felt the heat of the stone eating into him, as the stone itself began to slowly sink into his chest.

Reflexively, he grabbed for it, hoping to peel it away from him before it burned him, but Red grabbed his wrists and held him still.  Slowly he felt his flesh pushed out of the way of the stone as it forced its way inside of him.  It didn’t hurt at first, but the wrongness of his body moving in such a way sickened him.  However, when it reached the bone of his ribcage, pain shot out along the ribs, encircling his chest in thick wires of agony.  He couldn’t even draw in the breath to scream.  Escape was the only thing on his mind, and he struggled recklessly against the hands holding him still, bringing his leg up to kick Red away, force him to let go so Lancelot could get at the stone.

“Be still,” Red said, and Lancelot felt his muscles lock in place.  His thoughts stalled, unable to comprehend why he wasn’t able to fight any longer.  The oath?  Already?  Red studied him for a moment, then let go.  Lancelot’s hands hung in the air helplessly as the stone made its way past his ribs and began burning through his insides.  The pain consumed him; it had to be destroying everything in its path.  If it touched his heart, it would kill him.  The heat was building, boiling him from the inside out.  A whine eased out through his shut lips, but without being able to move, it refused to manifest into a scream.  His vision darkened, the loudest thing in the room the sound of his desperate breathing through his nose.

With an almost palpable tremble, the stone settled into place near his heart and the heat died as quickly as it had built.  Red trailed a finger over the spot where Lancelot had held the stone during the oath.  Lancelot shivered, but his hands were still trapped in the air.  His skin looked unmarked, as if the stone had simply disappeared.  “I suppose that it will do,” Red remarked, crossing his arms.  “There’s no changing it now.  Ah… perhaps I should have let you scream,” he added, thoughtfully.  “You can move.”

Lancelot clutched at his chest with his hand as his muscles released, still unable to believe that the stone was gone.  No… he’d felt it.  He could still almost feel it, a tiny hint of resistance with every beat of his heart, but that had to simply be his imagination.  If it had gotten that close to his heart it truly would have killed him.

But what wasn’t imaginary was his despair.  He hadn’t missed Red’s comment about the stone remaining intact before, and he’d held out hope that perhaps it could be destroyed.  Even if Red was careful, there might be some chance.  But if it was inside him… he couldn’t…

“I have a few basic orders for you,” Red said.  “Look at me.”

Even as the thought that he should resist crossed his mind, his chin lifted and he stared into Red’s face.  It didn’t even matter what he was thinking – he found himself following the order before he had a chance to consider it.  A chill went down his spine.  How extensive was this control?

“Good,” Red said, smiling.  “Ah… I have been waiting for this for so long.  The look on your face is exquisite.  You had no idea how it would feel, did you?  You thought that this would be like your relationship with the king.”

Lancelot clenched his hand into a fist.  Even now, he knew he couldn’t afford to attack Red, but he could still have the thought.  Perhaps after Vane and the children were free, he could…

“No, that won’t do,” Red chided.  “You will never attack me, or try to cause me harm.  Do you understand?”

And just like that, his hope was dashed.  The new order wrapped around him like a chain and pulled tight, stifling his breath.  Even though he hadn’t intended to do anything in that moment, he found his hand unclenching.  His fingers shook slightly as he placed his palm flat on his leg.  Part of him recognized that Red wanted an answer to his question, and he nodded silently.  His gaze was pinned on Red, unable to look away or do anything more than listen and wait for Red to release him.

“You will not divulge the existence of the stone to anyone, either by word or deed or implication.  Nor will you seek to harm yourself or it.  If my orders place you in harm’s way, you will obey, but you will attempt to protect the stone and yourself… and me… to the extent possible.”  Red theatrically placed a finger along his chin, as if considering, but Lancelot could tell the orders were devilishly precise.  Red had planned all of this before he’d started.  “Actually, I don’t want you to speak at all when around others, unless I ask you a question or indicate that you may speak.”

Lancelot drew in a breath to ask why, but found he couldn’t make a sound.  _Without question_ , he remembered dully.  Red studied him as if he had found a fascinating specimen.  “Wonderful,” he murmured.  “If you wish to ask me a question now, you may.”

A question.  It was a precise specifier, and Lancelot considered what he would ask carefully.  If it was only to be one, the reason for Red’s particularly specific cruelties didn’t interest him.  Red waited patiently while he thought.  Finally, he asked the thing which most concerned him.  It would hardly change anything, but he couldn’t help himself.  “Will you let Vane and the children go now?”

Red sighed, shaking his head.  “So unimaginative.  No.  Not immediately.”  Lancelot’s heart clenched in fear.  Red smiled, savoring his expression before continuing.  “I won’t break my promise.  I will free them, after we’ve settled your remaining debt.”

“I did what you wanted,” Lancelot said desperately, almost surprised that the oath let him protest.  If he’d done all of that for absolutely nothing…  “You said yourself that you were satisfied.”

“And I told you that if you satisfied me that I wouldn’t take his tongue, but that I was still owed a token,” Red said.  “I will have my token, as I promised.  In fact…”  He considered Lancelot for a moment.  “Perhaps it would have more of an effect if you were to handle it yourself.  Put your shirt on and then come with me.  Silently.”

Any additional protests Lancelot might have made died in his throat.  He clenched his jaw, trying to speak, but he couldn’t convince himself to produce a single sound.  Silently he stood from the bed, putting his shirt on and then dutifully following as Red swept out of the room without even a backwards look to ensure Lancelot obeyed.


	16. Chapter 16

Lancelot trailed in Red’s wake as they walked down the corridors, staring at the man’s back, the swing of his long hair as he walked.  At first he thought they would be going to Vane’s cell, but instead Red took him back to the room where Lancelot and Five had fought.  The cell door was closed and locked.  Behind the bars, Vane was still trussed up as he had been before.  It was clear from the rope burns near his wrists that he’d struggled with the ropes, but also that he hadn’t made any progress.  The glare he gave Red was full of undiluted anger, though his gaze softened as he looked at Lancelot.

_Vane.  I_ _’m so sorry._

“Stand there and wait for me,” Red said, pointing next to the cell door, and then left.

Lancelot stared at Vane, all the things he wanted to explain and everything he wanted to say burning in his chest.  But Red’s orders bound him.  He couldn’t speak, not in Vane’s presence, not unless Red allowed it.  Vane’s expectant gaze was painful to bear, and as it slowly wilted into confusion, Lancelot finally looked away.  Vane made muffled noises against the gag, presumably trying to draw his attention back, but with nothing to offer, Lancelot stared at the floor instead of at his friend.

What was Red going to make him do?  It wasn’t to be the tongue, but there were so many other ways Red could maim Vane. The deal they’d reached seemed so fragile in retrospect, but Lancelot hadn’t had much of a choice but to accept what Red had offered.  His jaw ached as he ground his teeth together.  He’d… he’d done everything he could to buy Red’s mercy.  All he could do now was wait and see what lenience he’d bought.

Red returned several minutes later, bringing with him a small cloth bag which clacked with the sound of stones striking each other as he walked.  He opened the cell door and gestured Lancelot inside.  It was an unpleasant surprise to discover that implied orders bound him just as surely as verbal ones, and he didn’t miss Red’s pleased smile as he obeyed.  Red had said that the stones were rare.  Was this the first time he had used one?  Perhaps… perhaps there was some secret Red had missed.  Some flaw in his control.

But when they reached Vane’s side and Lancelot looked down at his friend, all of those desperate hopes flew out of his head.  Red, standing next to him, took Lancelot’s hand and pressed the hilt of a knife into it.  His hand reflexively closed about the leather binding.  He could see at a glance that the edge had been recently sharpened.  It glinted in the light.

“I think you could use something to remember him by.  A little token, perhaps.”  Red slid an arm around Lancelot’s waist, staring down at Vane thoughtfully.  The phrasing was unpleasantly suggestive, and Vane struggled wildly against the ropes.  Vane thought that Red was going to kill him.  And how must Lancelot look to him now, holding a knife and not making a motion against their captor?  Lancelot reached out with his free hand, placing it over Red’s hand on his hip to draw his attention.  The look Red gave him was cold and dark, upset at being interrupted.  Lancelot put everything he could into his expression, pleading silently for him to be done with it.  Red’s mouth twisted in a cruel line.  He grabbed the front of Lancelot’s shirt, glancing significantly down at Vane before dragging Lancelot closer and kissing him roughly.

The knife was clenched in Lancelot’s hand.  With just one, deliberate motion he could thrust upward, up past the ribs and into the heart.  And he couldn’t move to take advantage of it.  Each time he decided to strike, the oath clamped down on his will.  Red’s orders echoed in his ears and his muscles relaxed, refusing to obey him.  His mouth opened to admit Red’s tongue as his hand trembled around the hilt of the knife.

“If I’d realized you wanted to reprise your performance, I would have prepared for it,” Red hissed as he let Lancelot free.  “Remember that all of your actions have consequences.  I’ll hold him.  Cut off the last joint of his little finger while I do.”

When Red crouched down and let Vane’s left arm loose from the ropes, Vane took the opportunity to struggle with all he had.  Red responded by putting a knee on his back and pinning the arm down with his unnatural strength.  But when Vane curled his fingers into a fist, it fell to Lancelot to pry his hand open.  He mashed the hand flat, holding it still with his knee digging into the back of it, staring down at the fingers callused from fighting. 

If he could focus on something other than the order… but his hand was already moving with the knife.  His body would move to satisfy Red’s order without his will if necessary.  But as he tried to think about how to do as little damage as possible within the confines of the order, his hand slowed.  He could exert some control over the form his obedience would take, as long as he intended to obey.  His mind spun, looking for alternatives, but he knew what Red wanted.  He couldn’t misinterpret it, couldn’t pretend that the joint Red referred to was anything but what he knew it to be.  The moment he tried to circumvent the intent of the order, his hand began to move without him once more.  Frantically, he told himself that he intended to obey, trying to buy even a moment to change the outcome, and his hand slowed once more.

Clean.  The best thing he could do was to make it clean.  He leaned his weight on the knee holding Vane’s hand down, looking for that brief second where Vane’s fingers didn’t even tremble, the knife hanging over the little finger, waiting.  And when it came, he was careful to strike the joint precisely.  The knife was sharp, and even as it scraped against the bone and he felt the hint of resistance as it severed the tendon and went through the cartilage, the process was quick.  It was the only kindness he could give.  If he’d had to saw through it… just the thought made him nauseous.  Vane let out a muffled yell and struggled harder, even though the deed was already done.  Blood dripped to the floor from the open wound, and the severed fingertip seemed somehow lonely sitting near the shaking hand.  When Lancelot began to pull away, Red stopped him.

“Not yet,” he said.  Red fished in his belt pouch, apparently unconcerned by Vane’s thrashing, and pulled out a small brown packet.  Ripping it open with his teeth, he poured a stream of milky white crystals over the exposed wound.  They seemed to melt against it, forming a dull white crust and sealing it closed.  Tossing the now empty packet to the side, he stood up, pointing at Vane’s severed fingertip.  “Pick that up.  We’re leaving.”

Lancelot’s fingers trembled as he picked up the severed bit of flesh and bone and got to his feet.  It was small and cold in his hand.  Vane, meanwhile, was staring at them with confusion, his eyes glazed with pain.  Red waited until Lancelot looked up at him, then deliberately held up a violet crystal.  His eyes glinted red as he leaned over, placing it on the floor right in front of Vane’s face.  Vane’s eyes widened as the crystal took effect, showing him the image contained within.

“Consequences,” Red said, precisely, as Lancelot shook his head in silent protest.  “I hate to part with one of my treasured memories, but perhaps you could both use something to remember each other by.  I’m sure that this will have a suitable impact.”

Shock spread across Vane’s face, and horror.  But Red was moving, and Lancelot had no choice but to follow him.  As they headed towards the corridor, Red left both the cell door and the door to the room open behind him.  Vane was still partially unbound, though Lancelot wasn’t sure whether he could get out of the ropes without help.  If he did, he’d be able to go anywhere in the complex he wanted, or leave.  Clearly Red wasn’t concerned.

Lancelot tried several times to speak as they walked, but he had to wait until they were well down the hallway and he could be certain that Vane could no longer hear them before he could say a word.  He glanced over his shoulder, half-hoping, half-fearing that he’d hear Vane chasing behind them, but the only footsteps he heard were his own and Red’s.  “Where are we going?” he asked anyway.  Maybe someone would hear.

“Away.  I have no further use for this place,” Red said shortly.  They turned a corner and came upon Five, whose eyes widened in fear as he saw Red striding toward him.  Five stepped to the side of the hall to let them pass, but Red stopped in front of him and fixed the boy with a glare.  “Fetch the others and tell them they can go.  At sunset, return to the fighting room and check on the man in there.  If he’s still bound, free him.  Make sure he takes the crystal.  Then you may leave as well.”

Five raised his head, staring at Red with a growing confusion.  “Go?  Leave?  Where?”

“I don’t particularly care, actually,” Red said, breezily, waving a hand.  “I made a deal, and you were part of the payment.  Those are my final orders.  Enjoy your freedom, such as it is.”  Red returned his attention to Lancelot, crooking his finger in a clear gesture that he should follow, and strode away.  Lancelot glanced over his shoulder as they left the boy there.  While it was the most expression he had seen on Five’s face, the drawn eyebrows and widened eyes didn’t look like happiness.  After a few moments of standing there, staring with a mix of terror and loss after Red and Lancelot, he turned and ran down the corridor.

“I’m truthfully not sure you’ve done them any favors, but there – I’ve satisfied my end of our agreement,” Red said as they walked.

“You’re just going to abandon them on an island with no way to get off?” Lancelot protested.

“Watch your tone.  There’s a town near the edge, far away from here.  About… hmm.  A day’s walk?  There are weapons in the complex to fend off monsters, and if they stick to your friend, they’ll be fine.  I can’t guarantee that they’ll reach home, but that’s hardly my problem.  You only asked for their freedom, and I’ve granted that.  If you wanted more guarantees, you should have been more precise.”  Red’s tone was curt and dismissive, as if his mind was on other matters.

Lancelot’s thoughts turned slowly in his head.  His body ached and he was exhausted, and the memory of Vane as he’d left him haunted the edges of his consciousness.  The bit of finger in his hand was cold and the blood had stained his palm, but he couldn’t make himself open his fingers and let it go.  Red wanted it for some reason, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask why.  The only idea he could think of was some sort of blood magic, but Red had held up his end of the agreement so far.  His word seemed to be good.  He didn’t intend to go after Vane.  But if not that… Lancelot’s imagination faltered.

“You may ask one more question,” Red said suddenly, as they reached the mouth of the cave.  “As soon as we reach the airship, I want silence from you.  I need to think.”

Lancelot swallowed.  So that was why Red had been so evasive when asked where they were going.  He likely didn’t know yet himself.  In that case, it was useless to ask him anything about the future.  That left Lancelot few options.  But after a few moments of consideration, his mind caught on a word which had plagued him since two days ago.  Skydwellers.

“Who – what are you?” Lancelot asked.

Red stopped suddenly and turned, his smile widening.  “You gave me your oath without even figuring that out?  How terribly reckless of you.  I thought you were walking into this with your eyes open, and here I find you’re nothing more than a babe in the wilderness.”  Red stalked over to him, quiet menace filling the air.  Lancelot was pinned in place, unable to retreat even in the face of the naked killing instinct.  His muscles tensed, desperately readying for escape, but his will did nothing to follow up.  Red’s voice was low and quiet as he pressed a finger into Lancelot’s chest, right over the oathstone.  “There are monsters in the wilderness, you know.”

And suddenly, the malice eased as Red tossed his head with a laugh.  “Though my kind prefer the cities and the towns more than the forest, I suppose.  A babe in a slum?  Hmm… it just doesn’t have the same ring to it.  But we rather like you skydwellers.  You’re so… exploitable.”

Red spread his arms to the sides like a player accepting his due on the stage.  And for a moment, Lancelot saw him as he was.  His eyes were lit brilliantly from the inside like twin stars blazing in the eyeholes of a skull, and his mouth spewed forth light the same.  But the rest of him was dark and terrible.  Human-shaped, yes, but half again as large as Lancelot was, and snakes draped around him, their fanged mouths open in angry hisses as they undulated in the air.  Lancelot knew this shape.

Everything fell into place suddenly.  The unnatural knowledge of Isabella and Gareth’s plan.  The reference to Red’s allies, for whom he wished to take revenge.  The hatred for Feendrache.  His unstable feeling of presence which seemed to swell beyond his appearance from time to time, his unnatural strength, and the way he’d been able to grab things without reaching for them.

Red’s mouth opened and a terrible, hollow laugh emerged.  Then, as if it had just been a hallucination, there he stood in his adopted form once more, foppish appearance and all.  “I suppose I am a little different from my cousins.  A few of them would even consider me corrupted.  But I work for our goals just as much as they, even if my methods are a little more meandering.  Traveling is so much more fun if you enjoy the road as much as the destination.”  He brought his finger up and placed it in the hollow of Lancelot’s throat, his eyes glowing a bright, excited crimson.  “Tell me.  Do you regret your oath now, Lancelot?”

It was with a strange emptiness that he realized that Red’s identity didn’t matter.  This revelation colored in the edges of his decision more, but he’d known Red was evil before he’d placed the oathstone against his chest.  Perhaps Red would leave Feendrache alone, and the children and Vane were free, but Lancelot’s decision could have cost them everything else.  Red would use him.  Red’s control would stain him.   Perhaps that was the real reason why he hadn’t asked what Red planned: not because he thought Red didn’t know or wouldn’t tell him, but because Lancelot didn’t want to share that knowledge yet.  But unwittingly, he had invited it in anyways.  What Isabella and Aglovale had tried to do had wrecked uncountable lives.  And now, Lancelot was the pawn of the same kind of creature.

“I don’t know.”  The truth was compelled out of him.

“Well then,” Red said, his finger digging into Lancelot’s windpipe until the world seemed to spin around him, pulling it away as soon as Lancelot’s knees seemed ready to buckle.  Lancelot couldn’t even fight back, and the pleasure he saw in Red’s eyes at his distress was sickening.  “I’ll simply have to give you ample opportunity to find out.”


	17. Chapter 17

The flames started small at first, little sparks here and there dimly visible through the dark forest that separated Lancelot and Red from the village nearby.  The moonlight barely penetrated the canopy above, so Lancelot could see nothing more around them than vague silhouettes and the edge of Red’s jaw, grazed by a stray beam.  It looked misshapen, but Lancelot knew that was just his imagination.  Red’s illusion was perfect; Lancelot had never seen it slip unintentionally, and Red dropped it only rarely.  Sometimes Lancelot almost forgot what lay beneath it… but then Red’s smile would seem just a little wider than was natural, or the shadows would settle across his face just so, and Lancelot would remember when Red first showed him what he truly was.

It was easier to forget.

Red had sent the others ahead to do their work, leaving Lancelot to stand silently by his side.  He was wearing Red’s armor, close in design to the armor he had worn as a knight of Feendrache, but in the dim light the crimson color Red had chosen was nothing more than the dark hues of dried blood.  His blades hung at his back.  As they waited together, Lancelot rubbed a small slip of paper between his fingers.  He’d forgotten what it was there for and why.  As he realized he couldn’t remember why he had it, he let it fall to the ground to be lost amid the undergrowth.  It couldn’t be important if he didn’t remember it.

Shortly after, the first scream rang out from beyond the trees.  Lancelot couldn’t completely suppress his flinch at the sound, and Red’s quiet laughter tickled the darkness as he noticed Lancelot’s discomfort.  Soon came another scream, and another, as the villagers realized their homes were burning.  Off in the distance a howl rang out, followed by another, growing closer.  The monsters in the area were being drawn to the village’s distress.  Calamity invited calamity.

“I think it’s time,” Red said, turning to face Lancelot, who felt his stomach turn.  He hadn’t expected to avoid participating, but part of him always hoped that this time Red wouldn’t demand it of him.  It was nothing but cowardice to think that way.  The horrors Red inflicted on the people would be the same whether or not Lancelot was directly involved.  It hardly even felt different to do the work himself.  The geas of the oathstone was so seamless that he couldn’t remember the difference between being compelled to act and choosing to act.  Sometimes… he couldn’t be sure he was still under Red’s control.  Perhaps everything he’d done since the complex had been his own doing, of his own will.

His right earlobe ached suddenly, and a faint ringing in his ear coalesced into a whispered name.  _Lancey!_   He reached up, fingering the piercing, the bone earring.  Sometimes touching it reminded Lancelot of who he was.  Sometimes it seemed to be chastising him for all the terrible choices he’d made.  But he could always hear Vane calling his name when he remembered it was there.

Had it really been two years?

Red stroked Lancelot’s cheek with the back of his hand before bringing his fingertips to rest on Lancelot’s lips.  “I might not send you out this time.  A fellow prisoner, a gallant knight… do you think she might confide in you, perhaps?  If approached properly.”

It should have provoked some feeling, but even as Red prodded at the ashes of Lancelot’s emotions, not a single ember flared.  There was just… no point to it.  Red would take what he wanted, and Lancelot would give it to him.  Why struggle against the chains when the darkness had already closed in?  When the body was weak?  The mind exhausted?  Knowing that there was simply nothing left past the door to the cell, that the darkness beyond stretched out forever.  Lancelot let his hand fall from the earring and waited for Red’s next command.

The light darted across Red’s thin eyebrows and his lips as he frowned.  “You seem to be lacking in enthusiasm.  Do you need a bit of encouragement?”

“No,” Lancelot replied.  He couldn’t imagine the form Red’s encouragement would take, or perhaps simply didn’t want to.  In either case, it was unnecessary.  He would execute whatever orders Red gave him.  His enthusiasm wasn’t required.

“You look rather like the children did,” Red commented thoughtfully.  “Fascinating, though disappointing.  Were you weaker than I expected, or was I less delicate than I thought?”  He drew his fingers down Lancelot’s chin, hooking a knuckle beneath it and bringing Lancelot’s face up so the moonlight flashed across his eyes, turning them into pools of glowing white.  “It has been a while for you.  Skydwellers, with your mayfly lifespan.”

The screams were getting louder, and Lancelot turned his head just slightly, careful not to move his chin away from Red’s knuckle.  No crashing in the brush of fleeing villagers.  But there was something out there.  Something was going wrong.  “Would you like me to go fetch her after all?” Lancelot asked.

“Tell me—”

Lancelot’s gaze flicked back to Red when his voice trailed off into silence.  Red craned his head, gazing into the dark spaces between the trees, his hand falling away from Lancelot’s chin as he turned fully to look.  Red’s night vision was excellent, and even as Lancelot heard the sound of armored footsteps through the undergrowth, the sharp snapping of twigs and the paper-thin crunch of crushed leaves, he heard Red chuckle.

“Come back to join us?  You should have sent a message ahead.  We’re hardly prepared to receive you properly.”  Red gestured for Lancelot to stay at his side as Vane stepped into the moonlight.  Vane’s halberd glittered, and his face was solemn as he stared at them.

“Lancey,” he said quietly, dismissing Red with barely a glance.  Lancelot’s heart leapt in a confused mix of terror at seeing his friend there and relief at seeing him again, but his mouth remained stubbornly closed.  Red still held dominion over him, and he couldn’t speak unless ordered to.  They stared at each other in silence for several moments, but as it became clear that Lancelot wasn’t going to reply, Vane’s countenance darkened and his hands tightened around the shaft of his weapon as he shifted his attention back to Red.

Red caressed the back of Lancelot’s neck.  “Defend me,” he said.

_Vane!_   Lancelot placed his will against the prison of the oathstone and Red’s orders, but it was like an ant trying to force back a rolling boulder.  No matter how he strained, he couldn’t fight against it.  How long had it even been since he had last tried?  His hands moved of their own volition, closing around the hilts of his swords and drawing them.  His knees bent slightly and he settled into a fighting stance.  _Vane, run!_

Vane ran, but towards him, his halberd lowered in a charge.  It was far, far too easy a move to counter.  Even with Red at his back and bound to defend him, all that was required of Lancelot was to deflect the axe blade away and then move past it down the shaft to its now defenseless wielder.  It was such a basic mistake that Lancelot found his thoughts paralyzed.  Was Vane so desperate that he was just throwing away any chance at victory he had?  Did he think that Lancelot would ignore such an obvious opening on the basis of their friendship?  He had no idea that the oathstone existed, Lancelot realized.  Vane didn’t know that Lancelot couldn’t yield a single inch to him.

His blade drove towards Vane’s unprotected midriff, but Vane sidestepped and Lancelot stumbled as the axe blade caught his leg from behind.  The armor he wore prevented any serious damage, but he was shaken none the less.  This wasn’t the kind of technique which Vane used.  For all that the halberd was a versatile weapon, Vane had always used it more conventionally.  He’d branched out somewhat in the past year under Siegfried’s tutelage, but this… the thought caught him cold.  This was two years of growth that he hadn’t seen.

Lancelot backed off, warily assessing his friend with new eyes.  Vane’s expression was tranquil.  His eyes were clear and focused, bleached gray in the poor light, but Lancelot felt the chill of winter steal into his heart like frost creeping over a still pond.  Vane… didn’t care if he was hurt.  He was approaching this battle like he’d face an enemy, not a friend.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, Lancelot thought dully.  Without knowing of the oathstone… the very fact that Vane was here meant that he knew what Lancelot and Red had been doing.  He’d have to have tracked them down, following horror after horror and seeing the wreckage that they’d left in their wake.  And the last time Vane had seen Lancelot, Lancelot had severed part of his finger at Red’s command.  Without hesitation.  How could the friendship between them hold up when one of them had transgressed so completely?  Lancelot remembered his rage when he’d thought Siegfried had betrayed them, and Vane’s coldness suddenly seemed far too obvious.  The only part of this he should have been surprised by was that Vane had so cleanly separated his feelings from his fighting.  His friend had grown since the last time they’d seen each other.

His heart ached for the loss of their friendship.  But if Vane finished him… it would be over.  Red wouldn’t be able to use him any longer.  Perhaps that was the best Lancelot could hope for.

“I thought him nothing more than your shadow, but you think he can best you in combat,” Red said from his vantage point well clear of the weapons, his voice low, carrying oddly on the wind.  “Remember your oaths, Lancelot.”

Lancelot ground his teeth together.  He couldn’t forget Red’s words, no matter how much he wished to.  If Vane wanted to kill him, he’d have to do it honestly.  Lancelot couldn’t help him.  His body would fight.

But as the fight unfolded, it quickly became clear to Lancelot that Vane hadn’t just learned a few new techniques.  His entire way of fighting had changed.  They’d sparred together so many times over the years and Lancelot was so familiar with how Vane had fought in the past that every divergence caught him off guard.  Vane exploited those mistakes relentlessly.  He was steadily forcing Lancelot away from Red.  It was risky, but Lancelot shot a glance in Red’s direction, the oathstone worried about the command to defend his master, and Lancelot worried that Red might intervene at any moment to turn the fight against Vane.

Lancelot blinked as a huge sword glinted under the moonlight, curving in a heavy swing down at Red’s skull.  Red scrambled out of the way at the last second.  That was all Lancelot could catch before Vane yanked his attention back to the fight with a thrust at his midsection which nearly gutted him.  The part of him which was governed by the oath pushed harder, realizing that he was in danger of disobeying Red’s command to defend against this new threat, and he found himself dodging Vane’s strikes with only a finger’s breadth of leeway, desperately trying to land a solid hit on his friend and finish the combat so he could go to Red’s aid.  A lucky strike with his sword sliced through a gap in Vane’s armor near his waist and Vane flinched, but moments later the butt of the halberd came around and struck Lancelot right above his left ear.  The world spun and he dropped to his knees, struck senseless by the force of the blow.  His swords fell from his nerveless hands as he toppled forward.

Even prone, the world still wobbled around him.  His fingers dug into the undergrowth, searching for purchase as the oathstone demanded that he stand back up.  But the part of him that was himself went still, accepting what was to come.  It was over.  Finally over.

_This is necessary._   Red whispered in the back of his mind, and Lancelot heard Vane’s screams echoing in his ears.  The first… the first time Red had taken out Lancelot’s defiance on Vane.

_I never wanted you to suffer, Vane._   The thoughts were trapped in his throat.

Twin clangs rang out as Vane knocked Lancelot’s swords out of his reach with the haft of his halberd.  He crouched next to Lancelot, shoving him over onto his back and sitting on his chest so his arms were pinned.  A bright orange light seared Lancelot’s vision, and he squinted as it came closer.  Vane looked in that direction, his expression easing suddenly into a boyish relief.  It was the first truly Vane-like face he’d made since he’d appeared from the forest, and the last bits of fear in Lancelot faded as he realized his friend wouldn’t be broken by what was to come.  Percival came to stand over them, his expression forbidding as he stared down at Lancelot.

“Can you find it?” Vane asked.

“Don’t be silly, mongrel,” Percival replied, holding out his hand, palm down.  A ghostly green-white radiance enveloped his hand, then began to trickle down towards Lancelot’s chest.  It shimmered slightly as it pierced his flesh, but the glow strangely remained visible even through his skin.

That color… it was the same as the oathstone.

“As we thought,” Percival said in disgust.

“I’m sorry, Lancey,” Vane said, pulling out a knife.  “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t whimper.  Just get it over with, quickly,” Percival snapped.

_I_ _’ll hold him._   The knife glinted in the moonlight.  Sharp.  Just as sharp as…

The two of them worked to pry the chest plate free of him, cutting the straps holding it in place, heedless of the damage they did to the armor.  Lancelot felt himself struggling, even as an unfamiliar hope lit within his heart.   As they got the armor free, Vane settled the knife over the left side of his chest, where the ghostly white glow still lingered, his face twisted in chagrin.  He shoved the knife downward, digging between Lancelot’s ribs, parting his flesh along the blade’s edge.  The hope did nothing for the pain.  A wordless, half-muffled cry erupted from him, his mouth working to form words and failing as Red’s orders fought against the instinct to scream when hurt.  He couldn’t stop struggling, but every motion only hurt himself.  The strength drained from him as the knife dug deeper, blood spilling from the wound.  He gasped desperately.  Distantly, he heard Vane repeating, “Just a little more, Lancey.  Please.  Stay with me.”  And though Percival’s expression was distant as usual, there was a hint of worry in the way he frowned as he watched.

Vane gritted his teeth, putting aside the knife and plunging his fingers into the open wound.  His nails grazed places that shouldn’t be touched, and Lancelot coughed.  Wetness trickled down from the edge of his lips.  He still jerked against the legs pinning him, seeking any escape from Vane’s questing fingers.  The world shrank down to the all-consuming agony.  But finally he went still as the oathstone surrendered, realizing it couldn’t push Lancelot any further without causing more damage.  And with a short, sharp pain, Vane’s fingers emerged, holding a stone covered in red but still glowing a faint green-white.  Vane tossed it to the ground, and Percival drove his sword downward.

_We aren_ _’t finished yet._ Red’s chuckles, quiet and intimate, the feeling of his breath against Lancelot’s ear, the sweet scent and the violation of being stroked by cold fingers.

But they _were_ finished.  It was as if a massive weight had been lifted off of him.  Lancelot tried to draw in a deep breath and failed, coughing blood.  The wetness speckled his lips, dripped down the side of his cheek.  Vane had cut something inside of him which shouldn’t have been cut, he realized.  His shallow gasps didn’t seem to get him enough air, the cold air burning in his throat, every breath like another stab to his chest.  Vane slid off of him hurriedly, reaching for the pouch dangling from his belt, and seconds later a vial was pressed to Lancelot’s lips.  It woke memories of Red feeding him drugs, and Lancelot reflexively turned his face away.  The next thing he knew, his nostrils were pinched shut.  He stared up into Percival’s unyielding glare.  The need for air woke a coughing fit, and as soon as it was done with, the liquid was poured into his mouth and Percival let go of his nose.

The searing cold of mint, the bitter aftertaste of the base oil used to prepare the concoction, and a variety of other tastes he didn’t know the names for… but it was familiar.  A healing potion.  He fought against his instinct not to drink anything he was offered and managed to swallow it on his third try.  The potion stung his mouth and throat, but immediately he felt the pain ebbing.  With disbelieving fingers he clutched at his chest where the wound was already closing.  A few more bloody coughs and he could breathe again, though his throat felt burned and raw.  Vane helped him as he sat up, Percival close by.

Free.  It was too much to take in.  Free.  He looked past Vane to the ground where Percival had broken the oathstone.  The pieces glittered among the forest growth, stars embedded in the dirt, their light quickly fading.  He couldn’t shake the thought that this was another of Red’s tricks, but Vane’s arms holding him felt so real.

_You_ _’ve been aching for your lover’s touch._   A shudder racked Lancelot’s body.  The feeling of cold stone on his knees, and Red’s fingers entangled in his hair.  No.  He wasn’t there.

“Lancey?  Are you okay?”

He looked up into Vane’s shadowed face and tried to answer, but the words died in his throat.  The thought of actually speaking woke memories of Red, and he shuddered again.  With effort, he nodded once, shortly.

Percival, meanwhile, was looking back in the direction of the still ongoing combat.  “Siegfried hasn’t finished him yet.  I’m going to help.”

The fear of Percival and Siegfried getting caught up with Red, as ridiculous as it might be, gave him the strength to force his warning out through trembling lips.  “Illusion.  He uses illusions.  Be— be careful.”

Percival glanced back at him, and the tightness around his eyes eased.  He must have been worried by the silence, Lancelot realized.  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Percival said with a confident smile, hefting his sword as he went, flames licking around the blade.

Siegfried and Percival could handle it, Lancelot told himself.  He himself wasn’t in any shape to fight, and he knew it.  When he tried to think of fighting Red, he felt his hands begin to shake.  He had to get over it eventually.  But the things Red had done to him… if he let down his guard for a single moment, the memories assaulted him.  He could still hear Red whispering in his ear, the words indistinct.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get here earlier,” Vane said, his voice unusually muted as he looked after Percival.  “Oathstones are unusual… it took time for Percival to figure out how to find and break one.  And then we had to chase you down… but we found your notes.”

The notes.  The little scraps.  His heart clenched as he realized that he couldn’t afford to think of them as anything but accidents, little bits of trash he’d discarded.  He’d never be able to leave one behind now.  Red… he had to tell Red.  He had to…

His entire body locked, waiting for the compulsion to fall on him, but there was nothing.  The oathstone was gone.  A dry, distant chuckle rode the wind to his ears.  Was the fight going poorly?

 Vane leaned in closer, his arm going around Lancelot’s shoulders to help hold him up.  “Stay here with me, Lancey.  The potion needs time to work.  The rest of the knights are handling the villagers.  You don’t need to do anything.”

“How… did you know about the oathstone?”  He let himself lean into Vane’s chest.  He’d missed Vane badly, even as he’d prayed never to see his friend again while he was still under Red’s control.

“I faked being asleep, until the end.  Well… it wasn’t entirely faking.  I was pretty out of it.  But I heard what he said to you.”  There was a little hitch in Vane’s voice, and Lancelot caught on immediately.

Vane knew about the oathstone… and other things.  Red had made his proposition after he’d explained how the oathstone worked.  Vane knew what Lancelot had done to convince Red to lighten his “punishment”. 

Lancelot closed his eyes.  He had hoped that Vane had only caught the last exchange, that his silent protest had just been for the idea of Lancelot capitulating at all, not the specifics.  But no… Vane knew it all.  He knew that Red had been satisfied by whatever Lancelot had given him; Red hadn’t made Lancelot take his tongue, after all, and he’d seen the crystal… whatever that had showed him.  His horror had been real.

_Would you like him to watch as I figure out how you work?  Perhaps he could learn something._

Lancelot flinched as the memory of Red’s words brought all the humiliation back to the fore.  He looked away, into the darkness, anywhere but his friend’s face.  Off in the distance he could see flames and hear the clang of metal striking metal.  Percival and Red and Siegfried were still fighting.  And Vane was silent.

“Do you need to go help?” Lancelot asked, finally.  Things would never be the same between Vane and him again, not with that hanging over their heads.  The Knights… well, they hardly needed him anymore, not with two years of absence.  Had Vane taken over?  Siegfried?  Someone else?  Perhaps the best thing he could do was become a skyfarer in truth.  Though… how much of a reputation had he built as Red’s lackey?  The crew of the Grancypher would accept him no matter what he’d done, but he didn’t want to trouble them any more than he wanted to trouble Feendrache and the knights.

But when he tried to pull away so Vane could go, Vane’s arms wrapped around him tightly instead.  “Lancey.  Don’t.  I’m fine.  Five is fine.  They’re all fine.  Because of you.”

The bone earring in his ear seemed to burn him.  But remembering what he had done for Vane’s sake before reminded him of part of it he had tried hard to forget.  Vane was so close to him right now, and he wanted… wanted to try something before he lost his excuses.  Because when Red had told him to imagine someone else, he’d thought of Vane.

Fear closed his throat, but he pushed himself upwards abruptly, clumsily pressing his lips to Vane’s.  He remembered how this had ended with Red, first with the tables turned in the kiss and then… but this was completely different.  Vane was unresponsive at first, and Lancelot could read his shock in how his back stiffened.  As he’d thought… but then Vane turned his head and kissed him in return.  It was gentle, chaste, and Lancelot held himself back.  Red had been all jockeying and tongues, but Vane was innocence and restraint.  In that moment, it was exactly the balm which Lancelot needed.  It also ended far too soon.

_Focus on me_ , a voice whispered in the back of his head.  _Let_ _’s discover what you like, shall we?_

“Lancey, I…” Confusion tinted Vane’s voice, and guilt pierced Lancelot’s chest.  Vane hadn’t wanted this kiss after all; he was just following Lancelot’s lead, as he always had.  And Lancelot was taking advantage of him, exactly as he’d had done to him by Red.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m just still confused.  I don’t know what came over me,” Lancelot said, with a laugh that sounded false even to his own ears.  Once he would have been reluctant to lie, even over such a small matter.  Now it was a habitual facade.  He sat up a little straighter and made as if to get up, but Vane didn’t let go, and after an awkward moment, he relaxed again.

“I’ve always been by your side.  Maybe more... thinking about you, recently, I guess…” Vane said, his words tumbling over themselves.  “When I escaped and found you gone, I went back to Feendrache as quickly as possible… but Siegfried didn’t know where you’d gone either.  It was silly to think he would, but I’d hoped… it’s Siegfried, after all… and then we studied the oathstone, and then I trained… I knew I’d have to fight you.  And it couldn’t just be like all the times we sparred together.  I had to really think of how to beat you.”

“I know.”  His feelings certainly weren’t hurt.  He was proud of Vane, actually.  His friend had never really tried to push past Lancelot, even though he’d always had more potential than he realized.  It felt strange for that to finally happen under these circumstances… but perhaps it was the only situation which could have brought about that change in him.  “You did well.”

“No… that’s not it.”  Vane’s grip tightened almost painfully.  “What I mean is that you were always there, even when you weren’t.  We’ve always been better together.  And it hurt… without you.”

_Are you thinking of your friend again?  I can see it, the way the tension in your face relaxes, the smile which rises to your lips._

Lancelot wasn’t smiling now.  He wanted to protest, argue that even if Vane hadn’t wanted to go, that getting him freed had been for the best.  No matter what the cost had been.  But Lancelot knew that he just hadn’t been able to bear the thought of trying again and again and seeing Vane cut away piece by piece as he failed.  But Vane had wanted to stay.  He’d wanted to fight.  And Lancelot had taken that decision away from him.  Lancelot swallowed painfully.  “I’m sorry.”

“Then don’t do it again,” Vane said.  The laugh was forced, but there was some humor there, too.  Vane had never been able to hold a grudge.  “Stay with me.  Trust me.  We’re partners.  I want to be with you… as long as you want me there, I guess.  If you don’t… be honest with me.  But I’m no less a knight than you are.”

The words froze him.  He hadn’t thought through it all the way, but Vane… how would Lancelot have felt if Vane had done the same to him?  Vane had protested.  Lancelot would have done the same were he in Vane’s shoes.  “I know,” he said, forcing a smile even while guilt lanced him.

“Okay,” Vane said, the relief obvious in his voice.  “As long as we’re clear.”  Then, hesitantly, he leaned forward and briefly brushed his lips against Lancelot’s.  It was barely anything, barely… but a promise.

_I do strive to be a welcoming host._

Vane was right in front of him.  Red was behind him.  That was what mattered, no matter how Red’s words lingered in his ears.

The sounds of battle had died down, and Lancelot looked back in that direction to see Percival and Siegfried picking their way through the forest.  Siegfried’s armor was scorched around the edges and Percival’s bore several parallel lines where the metal had been deeply scored by snake fangs, but they appeared mostly unhurt.  Siegfried’s expression lit up as he saw Lancelot, and his eyes narrowed in happiness as he smiled.

“Did you get him?” Vane asked.

Lancelot knew the answer immediately from the way Percival’s expression darkened.  “No.  After Siegfried severed one of its arms, it ran.  It’s possible that the wound killed it, but I think it unlikely.  However, from the look of the circle it used, it fled home.  I doubt we’ll see it any time soon.”

The answer brought both relief and disappointment, laced with a hint of fear.  Red wouldn’t give up.  Even if it took him years to return, he would be back for both Lancelot and Feendrache.  If Lancelot could count on it being soon, he could be ready, but how much would his instincts dull as the wait stretched out?  Even now… even now he could hear Red’s voice in his ear, the soft chuckle, the insinuating words. 

_Like that.  Good._

He hadn’t even realized that he’d stopped breathing until Vane’s hand moved to his shoulder and squeezed.  He let out the breath he’d been holding in a quiet sigh.  The important thing was that Lancelot knew it was coming.  Vane knew it was coming.  And Siegfried and Percival knew it was coming.  That would have to be enough.

“Thank you,” he said, looking up at Siegfried and Percival.  “For coming for me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Percival said.  “How many times have we fought together?  And we could hardly have let you stay as you were.”

“You said there were prisoners, Percival?” Siegfried asked.

“Yes.  We’ll need to sort them out.  With your help, Lancelot, if you’re ready.”

Put that way, he almost had to be.  Reluctantly he sat up straighter and Vane let him go.  But he could still feel Vane next to him, and the faint memory of Vane’s mouth on his.  He got to his feet with only a bit of shakiness and went to retrieve his swords.  His chest ached from the lingering damage the healing potion hadn’t been able to wipe away.  It would take time before he could truly fight again.  As he picked his swords up, he said, “Most of them were intimidated into serving Red, but he didn’t use any other oathstones as far as I know.  However, he did recruit a few like-minded people…”

As they walked back to the village together, he still felt fragile, like every step might shatter something inside of him.  But he’d been through the same with Isabella.  The nightmares would come, and he’d struggle and fight and relive every horrible moment.  But he had faith that eventually it would pass.  And this time…

This time Vane would be with him the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where this all started: https://gbf.wiki/File:Lancelot_Azure_Haori.png
> 
> I almost wish I was joking.
> 
> Lancelot was my first suptix when I originally started the game, and while Sandalphon stole my Granblue fanfic virtue, it was simply because I couldn't think of what I wanted to do with Lancelot. Then that skin dropped, and well. Between Nyoro and that skin, I figured out what I wanted to do, and then a lot of words happened.
> 
> Anyway, it's been a wild ride, and thanks for sticking through to the end. May we all meet at the Island of the Astrals, Estalucia, in good time.


End file.
